


I told you not to take it.

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Sort Of, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2020-05-15 07:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 77,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19291432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: Tom decides to try Amortentia for research purposes.Harry should probably have stopped him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Definitely a style and a theme that I wouldn't normally do, but hey, I was in the mood to give it a go. Any feedback is most certainly welcome.

Harry had seen Tom is practically every mood under the sun, that was what came of accidentally becoming each other’s study partner. 

They’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. In this case, an empty classroom on the second floor, and whilst both of them maintained to this day that they had been debating, others had not seen it that way. That was how _this_ happened. Them becoming the guinea pigs for a new pilot scheme for increasing inter-house relations. In any class they shared, which just happened to be _all_ of them, they had to work together, nicely.

It was a fucking miracle they hadn’t killed each other yet. 

Tom was just so precise and meticulous and over the top, and well Harry, wasn’t so much, or at all, actually. They hadn’t managed a single class yet, without at least one sharp comment said with spiteful intent. Tom always insisting that Harry was dragging him down, while Harry maintained that it was Tom who was slowing _him_ down. 

Needless to say, they weren’t exactly friends. 

Well, Tom didn’t seem to think so.

He was always so cold, treating Harry like he was worth even less than the dirt beneath his feet, with those patronising smiles and disdainful glares and sarcastic comments delivered with a freshly sharpened tongue.

Harry had used to treat Tom like that too, until…

Until…

He hadn’t. 

He wasn’t sure why, and he certainly wasn’t going to admit the change of heart to anyone, least of all his friends, who would almost certainly tease him silly about liking Tom Riddle. Because that made him just like everyone else, and it worse because Harry, had always, and would always, make a special show of _disliking_ him. 

Anyway, he wasn’t even sure what these feelings were yet. Other than they were only around when Tom was smiling, more specifically when he was smiling at _him_. 

It just did something to him. 

Made his stomach uncomfortable, too tight, too warm, like a hot wire was being pulled taut inside him. It was frankly irritating, not to mention distracting. How was he supposed to study when the person he was required to study with was the one that made him feel all jittery, his nerves jangling like a windchime. 

And that only seemed to irritate Tom more. 

Tom, he’d learnt, didn’t like distractions; however genuine they were. They got in the way, he said, so did feelings in general. Not that that stopped him from experiencing them all and forcing other people to deal with the aftermath. 

Abraxas Malfoy had actually had the decency to warn Harry a few days before they started working together that Tom had – what he called – _mood swings_. At the time Harry hadn’t thought much of it, everyone had the occasional mood swing, didn’t they? 

But then he’d actually met Tom. 

The man was unbearable. 

That was how Harry managed to see, in less than a term, Tom in almost every single mood under the entire fucking sun. He switched between them as easily and as casually as a fly buzzing through a room, though somehow with even less sense of direction. One minute he could be perfectly pleasant, happy even, and then the slightest little thing happened, and a switch would flick inside him, and he would become irritable for the next four classes, minimum. 

Harry had seen him now: smug, disappointed, callous, friendly, angry, even miserable, and he had heard, from the scraps of information that hung around the communal study rooms, of other feelings that were, apparently, just as _unbearable_. 

He could have filled an entire bingo card with Tom and his stupid mood swings. 

But even having seen him in all those moods, never before, had Harry seen him quite as overtly _reckless_ as he was now. 

_Amortentia_. 

That was what this was all about. 

Harry had done the obligatory module on it back in his sixth year and had subsequently filed it at the back of his mind as something that was relatively unimportant, until now at least. Now they had to do a potions project: observe the effects of a potion for an hour or so, or something to that effect; Harry hadn’t really been listening, he’d just been watching Tom. 

“I am not taking Amortentia, Riddle,” he said, hoping the irritation he felt was translating well into actions. They had already been discussing this for too long, and this had to be at least the third time he’d refused, not that Tom was giving up because he was stubborn, to say the least. 

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Amor–fucking–tentia, and I’m not an idiot.” 

“That’s debatable.”

Harry rolled his eyes. This was exactly why he and Tom didn’t click properly. All because they could be having a perfectly pleasant discussion, and Tom, in all his magnificent pettiness, would throw some niggly little comment into the mix. 

And Harry could never ever let it go. 

“My final answer is no; so, either we do something else, or you take it yourself.”

Harry had genuinely expected Tom to turn down the offer instantly. Sure, he was stubborn, but he also idealised self-preservation, and experimenting on yourself didn’t tend to lend itself to preservation. He expected that Tom would find a way to blame him for it all, but at least he’d give in and they could just do something generic like a Polyjuice Potion, or even Felix Felicis if Tom was that into all this. 

But Tom wasn’t saying no. 

And that was worrying. 

“I didn’t mean it,” Harry said quickly, given that Tom was taking just a little too long to reject the proposal, and he hadn’t; he’d honestly rather do something a little less _unpredictable_. 

Anything at all really.

“Yes. You’re right…” Tom murmured. 

Harry breathed a sigh of relief.

“…You wouldn’t do it properly, anyway. I’ll do it.”

That was not at all what Harry had meant, it was brash and reckless and frankly not at all like the Tom he had come to know.

Harry sort of liked it. 

And he would have liked it a lot more if they hadn’t been discussing Amortentia of all things. It was hardly safe. Interesting? Definitely. Safe? Not even remotely. But by the time Harry had thought of anything to say to him, Tom was already packing up his things and getting ready to leave.

“I’ll brew it in the next week, then we’ll conduct the observation say… the first Monday of the Easter break?”

It was a question, but it didn’t require an answer, because Tom’s word _was_ the answer. Then he just walked out with one of those stupid smiles, leaving Harry standing in an empty classroom like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing in perfect imitation and his hands flapping uselessly at his sides. 

At least this way he wouldn’t have to kill Tom himself.

Tom would willing to do it for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next week, and after an embarrassing amount of time thinking about Tom, Harry came to realise that despite the fact he’d seen or heard of Tom in most moods, including this newfound recklessness, he’d never seen him in love. 

Not once. 

In all the seven years they’d spent together, there was not even a rumour of Tom dating anyone, or, in fact, having any sort of desire to do so, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t. Almost everyone loved him, and even those who didn’t certainly liked him. 

A category that Harry was begrudgingly including himself in these days. 

But Tom had no interest in any of them. 

Such a stance certainly hadn’t been bad for his reputation; the mysterious head boy who’d never so much as been on a date with a girl, let alone kissed one. At least, that was what Harry overheard the girls saying in the darker corners of the common room. If he cared to listen, which of course he didn’t, he’d hear what they’d to do to Tom if they got their hands on him, and what they’d teach him how to do to them. 

It made him blush. 

Though Harry doubted whether it would have the same effect on Tom.

As, whilst he’d never explicitly seen or heard anything, Harry would like to think their constant antagonisms had meant they’d been talking for quite a while now, and that he _knew_ Tom a little better than everyone else. 

He saw what other people didn’t. 

Things Tom didn’t want people to see. 

Things like Tom’s hand resting on Druella Rosier’s for just a fraction of a second too long, or the repeated glazed smiles to Aleister Lestrange last year, or even the way he watched Abraxas Malfoy in half their lessons; biting his lip and peeling back the layers with his eyes, unwrapping him like a child does with a chocolate bar.

Harry hadn’t liked to watch the way Tom looked at Abraxas, it made him uncomfortable, a pang in his stomach as though someone was twanging on the wires that made up his heart. 

He wished that Tom looked at _him_ like that.

Like he wanted to eat him. 

Though he wasn’t sure why; perhaps it was love? 

Or perhaps, it was just Tom finding a way to scratch an itch or fulfil a goal, after all, it was hardly a secret Rosier, Lestrange and Malfoy were particularly _fanatical_ friends. Always there, never allowed to touch but always allowed to watch; their support showing off all the shiny parts of Tom that seemed to get him whatever he wanted. 

But for all their staring, they didn’t have his attention per se. Just momentary appreciation, rather like how one might treat a cat or a dog or a small child when they wanted them to do something. 

Not that Harry had been watching _that_ much.

And what did it matter if he had?

So, it was still a mystery whether Tom had been in love or not, and if that really had any bearing on the experiment at all, other than it would probably be quite fun to watch Tom realise that there were some elements of life he couldn’t control. 

Actually, it was going to be hilarious. 

Now that he thought had thought about it, Harry was quite looking forward to it. 

Quite looking forward to watching someone as exact and ordered and organised as Tom, be smacked in the face by something as chaotic as love. Particularly such a high dose, particularly all at once. 

Tom wasn’t going to have the slightest clue what had hit him and hopefully continued to hit him until he was unconscious. 

Yes, Harry was planning on enjoying this one.

Revenge was, after all, sweet, especially when it was self-inflicted. Tom wouldn’t have anyone to blame apart from himself. 

Though, as compensation, he did seem intent on making Harry’s life as intolerable as possible in the build-up. A constant stream of reminders telling him how to make notes, and the areas he needed to focus on, and the questions he had to ask, and whether he could improve his handwriting to make it even vaguely legible. 

Harry just smiled sarcastically and imagined what it was going to look like when Tom was forced to experience an emotion, he wasn’t one hundred percent in control of.


	3. Chapter 3

A combination of smugness and mild superiority was a perfectly good position to maintain until Monday actually came around. By the time they were both sitting in Tom’s bathroom, Harry sitting on the toilet seat and Tom balanced on the edge of the bath, Harry was having significant second thoughts. This was hardly a potion that teenagers should be making without supervision, even a teenager as good as Tom. 

They hadn’t even mentioned it to anyone. 

Most people had already left for the Easter break, and anyone still here, who actually cared, thought they were writing an essay on Necromancy. 

No one knew what they were actually doing. Tom said they didn’t need to know, and Harry wasn’t particularly willing to _admit_ what they were doing.

It had been quiet for too long now, the two of them just staring and waiting for an unassigned deadline to be reached. Even though Harry was a decent distance from the thing itself, he could still smell it, or rather, practically swallow it given it was so pungent. The plan had originally been to take it in Tom’s room, but it had been so overpowering that Tom had insisted they moved in here.

Which frankly made it worse. 

Such a heady smell in such an enclosed space made Harry’s stomach turn and a fine film of fog form across his mind, clouding every thought and blurring the whole scene into a mass of colour and shape. One comfort though, was that it was the same sort of scent that Harry had smelled the year before, sweet treacle tart and the woodiness of a decent broomstick. There was also something else, not flowery anymore, more…

More…

Harry couldn’t place it.

He just recognised it, could practically taste it. He just couldn’t remember where he had smelled it before. Harry wondered if Tom was thinking about something similar; after all, he’d been sitting still for quite some time now, just watching the steam rise in soft curls.

“What do you smell then?” Harry asked. 

“None of your business.”

“So sorry for asking. I just thought we were examining its effects,” said Harry, knowing it had more bite than it probably should have done.

“We are, _after_ it’s been ingested,” Tom replied, with just as much bite. 

Harry just rolled his eyes, as usual, it was the easiest way to deal with Tom. He got the distinct impression that Tom was either being very difficult or he just wasn’t willing to share, which was just a bit odd really. But if Tom didn’t want to answer him, then Tom wasn’t going to answer and there was no point trying to prize it out from between his teeth. 

Tom was private like that, never sharing anything about himself other than what was absolutely necessary. Harry was pretty sure he’d never actually heard Tom talk about anything that wasn’t work. 

Which was a shame. 

He’d like to know more about Tom. 

Harry sighed audibly and went back to staring at Tom, as he stared at the drink. A small part of him felt the need to check if Tom had any remote idea what he was about to do to himself, or rather, confirm his own selfish suspicions that even if Tom _understood_ in theory what he was about to do, he had no practical experience of it. 

“Have you ever actually been in love?”

Tom was silent for just long enough.

“You haven’t?” he said. He’d known, but he’d still sort of expected Tom to, at least, try and defend himself. 

“What’s your point, Potter? It’s just chemicals.”

_Sure_. It was _just_ chemicals, but a very specific set of chemicals that Tom didn’t appear to be appreciating the potential effects of.

Tom seemed to sense his answer was inadequate and changed the subject. 

“Do you have everything?”

“Yes.”

Tom glared at him.

“Yes,” Harry repeated, “do _you_ have everything?”

“Of course I do. I’m actually organised,” Tom snapped back before going quiet again. They stood for a while, just staring at the spirally swirls of steam that was rising from the cup that Tom had placed on the shelf above the sink. Sort of on display. 

“And, by the way, I adapted the original recipe a little,” Tom said casually, like it shouldn’t concern Harry remotely and was just a mere formality that he shouldn’t concern himself with. 

“Tom!?”

Harry had reluctantly accepted studying Amortentia, and letting Tom be the one to take it, and not having an antidote nearby (because Tom didn’t need that, apparently). He’d even accepted having his quill charmed to write in Tom’s handwriting, but he had not agreed at all to Tom playing around with something quite so volatile. 

“Tom, I really don’t think this is a good ide– ”

But before he could finish, Tom had already got up and taken the cup.

“Tom don’t.” 

Tom only smirked and swallowed the shimmery liquid anyway, almost like a child with a fizzy drink they know they’re not supposed to have.

He was certainly petulant enough. 

Tom turned to him, still smiling. “It’s _adorable_ that you’re so worried, but don’t be. I’ll be fine for the next thirty minutes. And after that, it’s just a little love, it can’t be _that_ bad, can it?”

_Famous last words._


	4. Chapter 4

Harry had no idea where Tom had got ‘it won’t take effect for thirty minutes’ from. 

It took less than a minute to start kicking in. 

Less than a minute and Tom wasn’t looking so good. An unnatural paleness slithered under his skin, the sort usually reserved for the terminally ill and mortally wounded. The sort that reminded Harry of sick people lying in empty hospitals. It also appeared to knock Tom off balance as his hands immediately went to the sink, holding the edge and trying to steady himself. 

Harry just sat there. 

He’d wanted to see this, but now that he was actually seeing it, he couldn’t quite enjoy it. 

Not with that pang of worry that shouldn’t exist coiling around his stomach. 

_Squeezing him._

Harry just sat still, legs crossed, the pad of paper resting on his thigh. Watching Tom, probably for the first time, completely uninhibited. For, whatever Tom was feeling right now, it was distracting, drawing all his attention to his own reflection, he probably didn’t even realise Harry was watching him. 

Tom really didn’t look so good. 

And that was rather an intriguing reaction. 

To see the realisation seep from Tom’s eyes as he suddenly appreciated why Harry had perhaps been reluctant to do this himself. In fact, why anyone would be against doing this to themselves, because it really was a stupid thing to do. 

Perhaps Tom had realised he was wrong. 

That he too was as stupid as the rest of them.

Something in the back of his mind told Harry, he should probably be writing all this down, as Tom had told him to, but then again, he might miss something, that, and Tom was being suspiciously quiet right now. 

It had been five minutes now and Tom still hadn’t said anything. If anything, he seemed to be curling even closer to the sink; head bent forward, hair hanging in his eyes, and under the yellow lights, the pink coloured flush spilling thick down his neck was obvious. Almost lurid. Definitely not normal. 

“Tom?”

“I’m – I’m fine,” he said, though the words sounded more pained than they should, as though he was saying them whilst someone twisted a knife into his stomach.

Harry continued to sit still in the silence. 

_What else was he supposed to do?_

They didn’t have a backup plan. 

_They should have had a fucking backup plan._

But it was too late now. 

After ten minutes, Tom turned towards him and Harry swallowed. Tom’s eyes were very dark. Of course, they’d always been a burnt sugar kind of dark, but now they were _black_ , pupils stretched much too wide, filling up the irises until they were practically spilling out. It should have been disturbing. 

It wasn’t. 

Instead, it made him look innocent, in a way. Doe-like. Pretty. Vulnerable in a way that Harry had never seen before, but rather liked. Tom didn’t seem to like it though, and he kept blinking, kept trying to focus, kept failing to do so. 

After fifteen minutes, Tom was gripping the sink with considerable force. Fingers pressing into the basin as though they could go straight through the porcelain. Harry was quite grateful that it wasn’t something flimsier or Tom might have broken it.

Might have _snapped_ it. 

Like whatever inside him was about to. 

The something that was twisting and tightening, grating Tom from the inside out and it must have hurt if the tension in Tom’s entire body was anything to go by. The stiffness of his back, how it was curved but not comfortable, just harsh lines stitched together into an arc. And the way he was grinding his molars together, the sound practically audible in the quiet of the bathroom. 

Maybe it was good that they didn't have an antidote.

If there had been one available, Harry was sure he would have forced it down Tom’s throat already and then he would have had to put up with Tom whining about it for at least the next fortnight, if not beyond. 

But that would surely have been better than this?

After twenty minutes had passed and Tom looked physically sick. He was breathing too fast and was struggling to even focus on anything for more than half a second, eyes darting around the room, apparently seeing a hundred different things that Harry couldn’t. And not just seeing, Tom spent too long with his brow furrowed, apparently, listening to a sound that Harry couldn’t hear.

The bathroom itself was silent, aside from the, regrettably, the loud pounding of Harry’s own heart. 

And that made the whole thing feel fake. An artificial scene constructed for an over-stylised film. The sort with a washed-out colour palette, grainy texture and gritty story. 

It was as though, any second, Tom would snap out of it.

Laugh at him for being so worried.

And that would be the end. 

_But Tom wasn’t snapping out of it_. 

Twenty-five minutes passed in silence and Tom genuinely looked like he might pass out, which, undoubtedly, would have been the best option right now. If he could just collapse on the floor in an unconscious heap, then Harry could think. 

Find an acceptable way out of this situation. 

Tom wasn’t collapsing though; he was just biting his lip. Well, not really biting, more chewing, mashing it between his teeth until it was on the verge of bleeding, of splitting right open and just spilling out all over the sink.

Harry wouldn’t admit how much he wanted to touch Tom’s lips, bleeding or not. 

Wanted to just roll them between his fingers.

Maybe even kiss them.

_Kiss Tom._

He shook his head because that was _really_ not something, he should be focusing on right now. 

Finally thirty minutes after he'd started this entire thing, Tom looked positively disturbed. 

_Unhinged_. 

His lip had split right down the centre, and a thick line of blood trailed artistically down his chin, dripping into the sink. He was hunched over the sink, and Harry could only see his reflection. The brown eyes and elegant curls of hair transposed with black eyes filled to the brim with dilated pupils and hair sticking to his forehead in a way that should _not_ have been attractive. 

Harry was so busy watching he hadn’t noticed that Tom’s eyes hadn’t left him for too long. Tom was staring. _Intently_. 

Much too intently. 

It made a heat gather in Harry’s stomach again, a dark fluid thing spreading through every pore, burning him up from the inside out. Tom was watching him how he'd always wanted to be watched, and now it was actually happening. Tom's gaze squeezing his lungs together, pushing all the air out of them and just leaving him breathless. 

He swallowed. 

“Tom? A-are you alright?”

For a good thirty seconds, Tom just stared blankly at him. The cogs in his brain almost visible as they turned, trying to work out what Harry had just asked. Hearing words but unable to compute them with any sort of efficiency. 

“I – I’m – I’m – ”

The words looked so heavy on his tongue, physically forcing it down and his words to dissolve with it. Tom swallowed. 

“Absolutely fine,” he choked out eventually. 

He did not look even _remotely_ fine. 

In all the years that Harry had been aware of him, Tom was controlled, meticulous and highly disciplined. Everything neat and tidy and in its perfect place. This was the exact opposite. This did not look like Tom. 

_Not at all._

Harry had never seen him look so sloppy, so _out of it_. Eyes glazed over and hair a mess and body curving in on itself like Tom was getting sucked into his own core. 

“I – I feel – like I’m going to – throw up,” he mumbled, more to the sink than to Harry.

“Well, I told you not to take it.”

It was petty, but Harry couldn’t resist getting to Tom in some way. Proving that _he_ was right for once. That was just the effect that Tom had on people, whatever state he was in; he made them malicious for no reason at all. On the bright side though, it proved Tom could still glare at him, which was something. 

“How about you lie down then? Can you walk?”

Tom glared at him again, “of – of course, I – can, you idiot, – I’m – I’m not drunk.”

Tom could not walk.

Not even remotely. 

As soon as he let go of the sink he collapsed into an unruly heap. A mess of limbs and clothes and slurred words that Harry didn’t catch. 

Fuck.

_Fuck_. 

This was not at all how today was supposed to go.


	5. Chapter 5

With a considerable amount of effort and a lot of cursing, most of it directed towards Tom, Harry managed to manhandle him onto the bed.

He had never touched Tom before. Not once in his memory had Tom let him come close enough to even allow their shoulders accidentally knock together. He’d always sat on the opposite side of the table, when they studied or behind him in class, because working together did not equate to an association with one another, apparently. 

Being civil was not the same as being friends in Tom’s eyes. 

But now Harry could touch Tom as much as he wanted. He could feel Tom’s arm beneath his jumper and his shirt; feel his weight resting on him more than Tom would ever admit.

He would have liked to touch more than just his arm.

Harry would have liked to run his hands over Tom’s shoulder, slide his fingers under his collar and up his neck and into his hair. Oh, how he wanted to touch Tom’s hair. Touch it, feel it, run his hands through it; pull it hard enough for Tom to protest, and then pull it a bit more.

Pull it until Tom’s throat was exposed.

_Vulnerable_.

Until he could do what he liked to Tom’s throat because Tom was not in the position to stop him. 

That was what Harry would have liked to do.

But he didn’t. 

Instead, he just unceremoniously dumped Tom on the mattress and glared at him, with what he would like to have imagined was disapproval, though it probably wasn’t, given Tom looked such a mess. 

None of the symptoms, because that’s what they were, had waned, but they hadn’t increased either, which Harry supposed was a minimal plus point. None of that undid what was already done though, and _a lot_ had been done. 

For instance, there was no denying that Tom’s eyes were still much too dark, and his skin too pale, and his mouth was still stained red as a rose with his own blood. Although the flow had slowed now to just a dribble, Tom had smeared the blood right across his mouth. Looking at him like that, there was something strangely feral in that image, of man’s tongue flicking out to taste his own blood. 

It made Harry stare too long. 

And swallow too thickly. 

He tried to focus on other things, like the fact Tom was still flushed. That was quite frankly an adorable sight to see; to know that Tom’s ivory mask, which he made such a big fuss about every day, how his control made him _different_ , how it made him _special_ , was falling apart. Not just at the edges either. These weren’t small cracks along the sides where whatever was happening was seeping through; rather, the mask had split right down the middle. 

And Harry was given a full view of the consequences. 

In all their comical glory. 

Nonetheless, there were reminders that, however amusing this was, it was quite serious too. For even from this distance Harry could feel the magic as it crackled all around Tom. Was that normal? To be able to hear Amortentia practically fizzing on someone’s skin, did not sound normal. 

It sounded alarming. 

Ominous. 

Deeply disturbing. 

His brain could have continued all day with synonyms for all the ways to describe Tom right now, and Harry was quite tempted to waste his time thinking of them, but something in him told him not to. 

Probably that annoying conscience of his. 

Not that such moral thinking had interrupted him earlier when took Tom’s wand. Perhaps it was wrong to take it but, there was no way in heaven, hell, or earth that he wanted Tom to even attempt any sort of magic right now.

If he could barely string a sentence together, then Harry did not want to think of the abominable spells that he would manage to come out with. 

It was really for the best. 

And he needed the best right now, because the rest of this experiment was a fucking mess. They’d only, technically, been conducting the thing for forty minutes and Harry was already prepared to start banging his head against the wall, and maybe Tom’s head too, for good measure.

What had possessed Tom to actually do something like that? And why the hell would he even consider fiddling with Amortentia of all things? 

Harry looked over at him. Tom was watching, his eyes no longer darting around like they saw fairies everywhere. Now they were almost uncomfortably still.

Watching.

Just watching. 

Those eyes followed him, as Harry walked across the room to Tom’s bookshelf on the other wall. There were textbooks there, which he had some, vague, hope might shed some light on this situation. It would all be alright if Tom just stayed like… 

Like…

This. 

Watching him as a cat watches a canary.

But something in Harry’s bones told him, Tom would _not_ be staying like that. He might not have studied Amortentia recently, but that didn’t mean he was an idiot. It was the most powerful love potion in the world; they shouldn’t even be allowed to make it, really, let alone use it, and even less _modify_ it. 

But Tom was not one to be constrained by rules that he _personally_ did not agree with. 

_That_ much was obvious from the _everything_ about Tom. How he smiled so sickly sweet and then let his face fall to sneer the second someone turned their back. How people who disagreed with him, always seemed to have bad luck. How he openly flouted some rules when no one was around to see, but never felt the urge to allow others to do the same. 

Tom was simply a hypocrite. 

If you knew him, it was obvious, but he was also a careful hypocrite.

And no one would have believed Harry if he said anything. 

Finally, Harry found the chapter on Amortentia in one Tom’s sixth year textbooks he hadn’t thrown away. There was nothing, or at least, nothing unusual. No extra notes, nothing underlined, not even an arrow pointing to anything. Just the same words as always:

_It causes a powerful infatuation or obsession from the drinker._

_So helpful_. Who in the entire Wizarding world was not aware of that?

Harry sighed and slammed the book shut. He could quite easily have put it back on the shelf, but he chose to just drop it on the floor because, for no particular reason, he was feeling spiteful, and this entire saga was all Tom’s fault anyway, so _he_ should be the one to tidy up from it. 

Briefly, Harry flicked his eyes across the rest of the books, before glancing over his shoulder again. 

Tom was still staring at him. 

Had he even blinked? 

Just staring and staring and staring with those wide doe eyes that swallowed up everything in the world. Again, Harry could practically see the hundreds of little cogs whirring together as he tried to work out what he was seeing.

“You’re gorgeous.”

Harry looked up at him, of all the things he had expected Tom to say, that was not one of them. 

“What did you say?”

“You’re – you’re just so – _gorgeous_ … Harry.”

Great.

_Just great._


	6. Chapter 6

Tom had never called him Harry before. Not once. Never. It was strictly surnames, not just with him, but with everyone Tom spoke to. In fact, Harry had only ever heard Tom refer to three people not by surnames: Rosier, Lestrange and Malfoy, and in all three of those scenarios, Harry suspected that they had actually been a little more than _just_ friends. 

“What?”

“I think – I love you, Harry.”

_Fuck_. That wasn’t what was meant to happen, was it? Well, of course, it was meant to happen; Harry knew, like everyone, that Amortentia had to be directed at _someone_ , but…

But…

He’d thought Tom would just choose _someone else_. Rosier or Lestrange or Malfoy. _Not him_. He could have any of his dumb friends, with their sharp cheekbones and fancy clothes and heavy wallets. He could have used any one of them, all of them, for all Harry cared. 

But no. 

_No_ , Tom couldn’t do that. 

The bastard just _had_ to use him. 

The temptation to bang his head on the wall was growing, and Harry decided there and then, that this was going to be the last time Tom was ever allowed to brew, _anything_ that would impact both of them, unsupervised. 

“I – I love you,” said Tom again, still staring, though if Harry had to guess, he would have said, Tom wasn’t seeing anything properly. Probably just a blur of colours and shapes, all sliding together and fading in and out of focus. 

The whole room was probably pulsating. Just throbbing and throbbing with colours and sounds and shapes that wouldn’t focus. 

It was hardly a surprise.

To be honest, Harry would have said that it was quite miraculous Tom could talk at all. His insides probably felt like they were being mashed together; pounded and squashed and smashed until they resembled a pulp.

And he didn’t even want to think about what was happening inside Tom’s brain. 

And all the while Tom continued to stare at him, head tilted slightly to the side. 

Harry took a deep breath and wandered back across the room. Tom’s eyes followed him like a kitten to light reflected by a mirror. 

“Riddle, I need you to tell me what you did,” he said, hoping that if he spoke slow enough then _something_ might get through to him. 

“I love you, Harry. I really – really do. I love what you look like and what you smell like and – and I just want to know what – what you taste like too, and– ” 

“Riddle. Could you please try and focus?”

Tom swallowed. “But I just – love your eyes, Harry. They’re just – so – so – green, like grass. I just want to – lie in your eyes, just lie down _in-inside_ – you.”

Well, _that_ didn’t sound _remotely_ disturbing. 

“ _Please_ , Riddle. What did you do to it?” said Harry, a little more despairingly as he leaned against the wall directly opposite Tom. 

Tom didn’t hear him or ignored him, and just continued staring and mumbling thoughts that bordered on incoherent. “…And your mouth, I love your mouth. I want – I want – to touch your mouth. I want to – taste your mouth; just taste _you_.”

“What the fuck did you do, Riddle!?” 

For a moment Tom’s eyes snapped into focus. Finally, Harry had got his attention. He blinked a couple of times, as though whatever curtain had covered his mind had been converted from velvet to voile, and he could almost understand. 

“The bal-balance and the – the potency; I altered them.”

“The what and the what?”

“I – I – I just love your tongue– ” 

“Tell me what you fucking did,” said Harry, “or…” he paused looking around the room for something remotely threatening. 

An idea dawned. 

“Tell me, or you don’t get to see me. I’m going to face the wall until you tell me exactly what you did.”

That really got Tom’s attention, and a thin spread of alarm settled across his face, like the first layer on snow in December. His teeth immediately going back to his split lip, chewing it until the blood started oozing out again, coating his tongue in a sticky sheen.

But he still didn’t say anything.

So, Harry turned to the wall. It was honestly slightly worrying not to have his eyes on Tom, not to know what he was going to do next, because Tom was unpredictable at the best of times. Harry briefly wondered whether Amortentia would cut through the mood swings or whether the effects would just be swept up along with them. 

“I want – I want to see you, Harry,” he said, and it genuinely sounded sad, and distant, and slightly pathetic, like a child who’d just dropped their ice-cream on the grass. 

“Then tell me, Tom, exactly how you ‘altered’ it.”

Silence. 

Tom spoke first. 

“Amortentia is – is made up of three – three – things: attraction, lust, and attachmen– ”

“I don’t need a lecture; I need you to tell me what you did.”

Tom sighed, or perhaps it was described as a childish huff. 

“Two – two changes. One… One…” 

Whatever words Tom was searching for were failing him. The links in his brain faltering, and the words not even close to the tip of his tongue, he’d probably swallowed them, hopefully, he’d choke on them.

“One… the balance is normally equal. One third – each. I changed it”

“ _Oh_ really, Tom, I didn’t happen to notice that you’d changed it, not one little bit at all. I don’t need to know you did; I need to know how and why?”

Perhaps, he shouldn’t be quite so sarcastic, but Tom deserved it. 

Tom was still glaring, childishly. 

“I – decreased attachment. Didn’t think it was necessary. Can – I see you now?”

Harry nodded outwardly and screamed inwardly because how could someone _that_ intelligent be such a fucking idiot. 

“And the second change? Tell me and I promise I’ll turn around.”

“Usually – it’s high volume, low concentration. In class – we – we made a lot – but it wasn’t – very – strong, so I did, – low volume, high concentration.”

“You did _what_!? What in Merlin’s name is that going to do you, Tom?”

“I – I don’t – know,” he said, and for the first time, Harry heard an edge of apprehension in his voice. It shouldn’t have made him smile quite so much. 

But Tom was afraid. 

Even if it was only a little. 

He was actually _scared_ , and it was all his own fault. 

Payback really was sweet. 

But Harry still had a question buzzing on the tip of his tongue, because even Tom in his most reckless self-destructive mood, wouldn’t have done something _this_ uniquely stupid, would he? 

“Why would _you_ test it, if you didn’t know what it did, Tom?”

“Thought – it wouldn’t – wouldn’t affect me.”

Harry stared at the wall. Deadpan. Defeated. He couldn’t even bring himself to roll his eyes. There really was no end to Tom’s arrogance, was there? The sheer audacity to believe that obviously _he_ was so fucking special that he wouldn’t be affected by love.

Harry could have hexed him.

Could have fucking strangled him. 

Just wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed hard enough to kill him. He still could. No one would know and he doubted Tom could stop him; he could just climb on top of him and use both hands and press down on his trachea until he choked. 

Tom would look good with his eyes rolling back.

And his mouth open.

And his hands shaking. 

He’d look good taking exactly what Harry wanted to give him. 

“Can I – can I see – you – now, Harry. I need to see your eyes, your mouth, your tongue, your…”

Harry left for the bathroom before he answered that, exactly how he wanted to: with shouting, swearing and, at least one, minor injury on Tom’s part. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to do. After all, it wasn’t exactly an option to tell anyone; it didn’t exactly reflect particularly well on him. The head boy sprawled out on his bed, looking, quite frankly, dishevelled and going on about his eyes. 

That did not look good.

Not at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry sat on the floor, his head against the door of the bathroom, thinking. This wasn’t exactly the _best_ situation he could have found himself in, but there were also _far worse_ scenarios. 

This wasn’t the end of the world. 

Tom could still talk, could still function; he didn’t even remotely deserve to be able to do _that _, but he could. It wasn’t as though he’d turned to mush with no semblance of reality, a muttering, rocking person who heard voices would have been a lot harder to cope with. And, to be perfectly honest, this was probably the best way to have to deal with Tom, by having him partially incapacitated.__

__It certainly made things easier._ _

__Harry supposed too, that they should both be grateful that Tom had his own room. Harry had a feeling they both would have shrivelled and died for different reasons if this had happened in public. For Tom, it would probably have been an embarrassment. In all their time together, Harry had noticed that when Tom’s emotions did spill out and make a mess, there was a, usually very well coordinated, ‘damage control’ of sorts, led by Malfoy._ _

__People were made to understand a certain viewpoint._ _

__Stories were set straight._ _

__Silence was ensured._ _

__So yes, Tom would probably have been embarrassed, to say the least, because this certainly would have been too big for his ordinary damage control._ _

__It would have ruined his reputation._ _

__Though that was something Harry would have enjoyed seeing up close._ _

__It would serve Tom fucking right for getting them into this mess._ _

__Harry preferred to think of Tom’s embarrassment rather than his own, as his own was far more unsavoury. He could count on both hands the things he’d like to do to Tom._ _

__Exactly how he’d make him pay for messing with things he shouldn’t have._ _

__Because Tom looked _good_ when he was at complete mercy to that thing inside him that he had been stubbornly avoiding for a very long time now. It was almost _unbearable_ to watch love wrap itself around every inch of Tom, crushing him before Harry’s eyes, pounding him like storm waves against a breakwater, and Tom was going to break, eventually. Harry suspected the conversation, they just had, may well have been the last coherent thing he’d be getting out of Tom now. _ _

__At least for the next few hours._ _

__Or however long this fucking took to wear off._ _

__And however much Harry wished it to be the case, there was really no denying that the urge to strangle Tom violently was quickly being replaced with other feelings, wanting to touch Tom until he was squirming, to dig his fingers into his collarbones or under his ribs, to just feel Tom’s weight shifting under him, to–_ _

__Harry was snapped from his thoughts by an ominous noise from the bedroom._ _

__The sound of something breaking._ _

___Of course_ , Tom would have managed to break something after being left unsupervised for less than five minutes. _ _

__A groan._ _

___“Harry, can I see you yet?”_ _ _

__He swallowed because Tom’s voice sounded so good right now. Normally it had an edge to it, something practically metallic, a sharpness that cut through conversations, but _this_ was different. _ _

__Indolent._ _

__Lazy even._ _

__Certainly _seductive_. _ _

__The way consonants slid together in his mouth, mixing and merging together, and the way he said Harry’s name was just…_ _

__So…_ _

__Urgh…_ _

___Sexy_._ _

__Fuck. _Fuck._ Harry hit the back of his head against the door for even daring to supply _that_ word. But now it was stuck in his brain, bouncing off the walls like a pinball, stretching itself into every crevice until it was all he could think about. _ _

__That word._ _

__That stupid little word._ _

__Yes, this would _not_ have been a fun experience in a public dormitory. _ _

__Harry knocked his head against the door again, trying to level his thoughts, not that it worked, and sighed before getting up. It wasn’t like he could avoid this forever. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to avoid it, after all, Tom did look good when he wasn’t really with it. The honey glaze across his eyes, which shimmered when it caught the light, just _did_ things to his stomach. _ _

__Twisted it._ _

__Heated it._ _

__Made it feel so…_ _

___Fucking good_._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, there are supposed to be more italics in this, but AO3 is being really weird and not letting me put them in, I'll keep trying, and I apologise for it.


	8. Chapter 8

As Harry opened the door, the most obvious thing was Tom. The centrepiece. He was lying on the bed, staring at the light on the ceiling; it seemed to fascinate him, rather like a moth to a lamp in the dark. He didn’t even react when Harry closed the bathroom door. 

Taking advantage of the distraction, Harry glanced around the room and found, what he assumed was, the origin of the noise. A glass that had been sitting on the bedside table was lying on the floor, broken, and beside it, was Tom’s jumper. 

He’d thrown it.

And, apparently, his coordination was not quite up to it. 

Harry picked it up. Tom didn’t notice, still too busy staring. He meant to just fold it and then put it on the chair, but the smell was so distracting. Familiar.

Warm. 

Musky.

Just _gorgeous_ really.

He came back to himself in time to catch Tom watching him again. He was still lying on his back, but his head was turned toward him. Harry threw the jumper onto a chair. Tom’s eyes followed it, before slowly crawling back to Harry, as though on the way, he was connecting the dots. 

He didn’t say anything. 

Neither did Harry. 

They just watched each other again. 

From this _exact_ angle, in this _exact_ light, Tom didn’t look _too bad_. Sure, his hair was a mess and there was still blood, and more than before, glazing his mouth, but other than that…

Not too bad. 

At a quick glance, almost anyone would have thought that he was perfectly fine. It was only if they stared for more than a couple of seconds, that they’d start to see the cracks forming. If they continued to stare, they definitely would have noticed. 

The tattered remains of his façade. 

That pretty thing Tom had always hidden behind. The precision, the meticulousness, the exactitude. They were all stripped back, and what was left was just…

Fucking irresistible. 

Harry shook his head, trying to get _that_ thought out of his mind now. Irresistible was certainly _not_ the adjective he’d been looking for; Tom had always been attractive; it was nothing new.

But that didn’t mean that _he_ was attracted to Tom. 

Speaking of Tom, he’d changed position and was leaning back on his elbows, his sleeves rolled up, watching Harry with his head inclined to the side and his mouth teeth resting on his sore lip. 

“It’s so – so hot in here,” he said, in that same languid drawl that just _dripped_ off his tongue, whilst he half-heartedly fanned himself with his hand. 

“No, it’s not, Tom.”

“Yes – it is, Harry.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.” 

Harry sighed. Was this what it had come to? Arguing with someone drugged out of their mind, over the temperature of a perfectly ordinary room. Not only that, but arguing an argument he would never win because Tom was still so fucking stubborn 

Tom apparently interpreted Harry’s silence as a victory and started unbuttoning his shirt. Fingers fumbling as they pushed buttons through holes. 

It was ridiculous, he could just cast a cooling charm or something. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Tom, st– ” 

Harry actually found himself stopping midsentence, because, well… 

Wow. 

Just _wow_. 

All thought of casting a cooling charm went out the window because Tom looked _good_ without a shirt. Like _really_ good. Good enough to eat. 

Perhaps he was a _little_ attracted to him. 

Harry realised then that he had never seen Tom in any state of undress before. They were in different houses so had never shared dorms, and, though Tom played quidditch, they’d never run into each other in the showers between training.

It was probably because Tom didn’t train much. Harry had always got the impression that Tom was not a particularly enthusiastic quidditch player, much to his captain’s despair, simply playing because there was no one else, as opposed to genuinely enjoying the game. Not that Harry ever minded, it was better that Tom had only the barest natural talent, as it was probably one of the few areas that he actually managed to surpass Tom in, and he wasn’t willing to relinquish it any time soon. 

That was why he’d never seen Tom without a shirt, well, that and Tom was not exactly the type to strip off in many circumstances, if any; Harry certainly couldn’t think of one.

Which was _definitely_ a shame. 

He knew he was staring, drinking in Tom’s image like a man stuck in the desert for forty days, who had finally crawled to his oasis, not that Tom seemed to notice. He was back to staring blankly at the light. 

What could possibly be so interesting about it, Harry had no idea. 

Though now he was _really_ looking at him, there was something different about Tom, a shift had occurred, and Harry almost hadn’t noticed. There was a smile curling at the corner of Tom’s mouth. Just a simple little thing, but it made Harry’s stomach curl inward and start to crumble, collapsing in on itself over and over again.

Just collapsing. 

And reforming.

Collapsing. 

Reforming. 

Collap–

Tom interrupted the cycle with a sharp smile right at his face. All teeth, practically serrated, Harry could almost _feel_ it digging into his skin. 

“You look so – so – eatable, Harry,” Tom murmured, still smiling. 

“Don’t you mean edible?” Harry said, though he no idea why he bothered. Tom wasn’t exactly going to reply.

“Eatable,” he repeated, “I never want to – stop – just – looking at you.”

Harry half wished Tom _would_ stop looking because it was causing him problems thinking straight; his eyes were just too dark and his mouth… oh, Tom’s mouth. 

Harry kind of wanted to taste it too. 

Tom continued to smile, as though he could read his thoughts, as though he knew the things that Harry was starting to think he might, perhaps, possibly, want.

“I love you – so much, Harry. I – think – I want – to eat you, Harry. Roll you on – on my tongue and taste you – and – and swallow you _whole_.”

How the fuck was he supposed to react to that? 

Because…

Because…

He’d be lying if he said he _didn’t_ want to know what Tom tasted like. 

Harry shook his head again. 

_Merlin_ , what was he thinking?

Tom laughed at his silence and his open mouth. It was just a hollow thing, resonating around the room and curling around Harry’s throat. _Squeezing_ hot and tight, in just the right way to steal his breath from his lungs. 

“Are – are you – afraid, Harry?”

“No,” he said carefully, shifting from one foot to the other; he wasn’t _afraid_ of Tom. Nervous. Sceptical. Slightly worried even. But not afraid. As far as he could see, there was nothing to be afraid of. Tom couldn’t hurt him; he was all words and no actions. 

“You – you look like you’re afraid, Harry. You smell like – you’re afraid.” 

Tom rolled his head back; did he know how _good_ that looked? If he did, he didn’t show it. He just straightened his arms and sat up, palms stretched out on the duvet, legs spread just wide enough that Harry could have sat between them.

Tom licked his lips.

“I bet – you’d taste – afraid.”

Harry swallowed again, and slowly moved from the spot he had been standing in ever since he’d come back into the room. Tom’s head followed him as he paced across the wooden floor to the foot of the bed. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Tom, but I’m not afraid of you.”

Tom only smiled, much less sweet now and far more _knowing_ , shifting his legs as he did so. 

“Oh – not – not _of_ me, Harry. Of what – you want to _do_ – to me.”

His throat suddenly felt very dry, as though all the moisture had been sucked out with a vacuum, and all that was left was a void where his tongue should be. 

“No!?” Harry choked out, though what he was saying ‘no’ to, he wasn’t really sure anymore. 

Tom just continued to smile. 

“If you – say so, Harry,” he said, pushing himself up and leaning forward, “though – I - I don’t think – I believe you.”


	9. Chapter 9

They stood and sat in silence, staring at one another for _far_ too many minutes. Tom still leaning forward, with his chin raised, and the edge of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Harry just standing there, trying to work out what all _this_ was supposed to mean.

What he was _supposed_ to be feeling. 

Because, right now, he was just…

Just…

_Confused_. 

About everything. 

But especially Tom. 

And _he_ didn’t seem to care, only watching and staring with those dark eyes and a smile that was starting to spread like an infection across his mouth. Curling it upward in a way that Harry wished was unattractive, but simply wasn’t. 

And still, neither of them said anything. 

Until Tom started to laugh. 

It was a light airy thing that didn’t have a single care in the world, like cotton candy spun on his tongue; it stained the air with an artificial sweetness, which Harry did _not_ appreciate at that particular moment. 

“Your – your – face,” Tom managed to say, still laughing as he flopped down onto his back again. “Oh Harry – you – you – looked so worried.”

“What?”

Tom just continued to laugh, his chin tilting back and exposing his throat, until there was a perfect line, which Harry very much wanted to run his fingers down, from the tip of Tom’s chin right down to the buckle of his belt. Harry let his eyes follow that line all the way to the base of Tom’s ribs, but he dragged himself back to Tom’s face when he started to sit up again. 

Because _those_ thoughts were _entirely_ inappropriate right now. 

“What’s so funny, Tom?”

“You, Harry.”

Their eyes met and Tom collapsed back into laughter again. 

It was like watching a toddler. 

“You – you were so – scandalised.” 

It was then that the realisation dawned on Harry, rather the sun rising above a hill, slow at first and then just there all of a sudden. Unlike the sun though, Harry did not feel warm at all, but rather cold. Very cold. As though ice was being laid upon his spine.

It took, every, little, bit, of will power, not to fucking strangle Tom. 

That conversation had been a joke. 

_A fucking joke_. 

“You shouldn’t play around like that,” Harry said, his teeth gritted because... because… he _should_ have realised from Tom’s smile alone, that he wasn’t being serious. 

He’d seen it before. 

Always when Tom was feeling _particularly_ Machiavellian. 

“Shouldn’t I?” said Tom, that seductive baseline creeping back into his voice. 

“People _would_ take advantage, Tom.”

“You didn’t. Because you’re – you’re such a – gentleman, aren’t you, Harry?”

Harry tried to ignore how his insides curled a little tighter every time Tom opened his mouth, every time his lips made shapes and formed words, and every time there was a flicker of his tongue. 

It was frankly a crime to let someone be so _attractive_ and so _infuriating_ at the same time. 

He _really_ hated him. 

“Not everyone is so good-natured.”

“Well, Harry, I’m – not talking about – everyone, am I?”

Well, who the fuck _was_ he talking about then?

Once again, they just stared at each other, both in half disbelief. To Harry, it felt like Tom was trying to prove some elaborate point that had become so convoluted that no one had the slightest clue what it was supposed to be anymore. 

He wasn’t really willing to find out, either.

Not if Tom was going to just mess with his head. 

Honestly though, anyone who thought giving someone they wanted to love them Amortentia, was the _easy_ option, was clearly an idiot.

It was an absolute fucking _nightmare_. 

Not that Tom cared.

“Will you – will you – sit with me, Harry?”

Oh, and _there_ was the mood swings Harry had almost forgotten about.

Switching flippant to serious in the snap of a finger. 

He was quite tempted to take pettiness to new heights and simply ignore Tom entirely from now on. Perhaps go and sit on the chair that he’d thrown the jumper onto earlier. Just sit there and look at Tom. Maybe, he would even make notes, like they were _supposed_ to be doing if Tom hadn’t fucked up. Harry rather suspected Tom would _not_ like to be treated like a clinical experiment.

But it would serve him right.

Again. 

“Will you, Harry?” 

The request snapped him out of his perfectly pleasant fantasy. Tom was still looking at him with those lovely eyes, still dark, but, and it may have been the light, perhaps not as dark as before. When Tom moved and his eyes just caught in the net of light emitted from the lamp, they briefly looked brown again.

Just a tinge. 

Just for half a second.

But it was a relief, nonetheless. 

Though, even if the effects were starting to wear off, they were only just scraping the surface. It would probably be quite a while before it would fade from his blood and Tom would snap back out of it all. 

Well, probably, Harry didn’t exactly _know_ because Tom, in all his fucking wisdom, never wrote anything down. 

Merlin, he was being petty now.

Rather like Tom.

Thinking of Tom, he had continued to lie there, sprawling just to take up far more than his fair share of the bed, which was frankly _ridiculous_ , as he has been the one wanting to share the space.

But what was the point in arguing?

Harry just sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress, partly because space, but mostly because Tom was looking at him the same way as he had done earlier. All angular lines and sharp edges that made Harry cautious more than anything. 

Hyper aware of Tom’s every moment. 

Including the way, he stretched as Harry had sat down: arms above his head, neck back, legs shifting; and the way he rolled onto his side after, coming _much_ closer than Harry anticipated. Even the way that Tom curled up, so innocent, even while he was smiling his smile made of devil’s teeth. 

“You’re so – tense, Harry.”

“Oh, I wonder why, Tom?”

Tom only continued to smile that serrated smile, “because you’re – near me.”

It wasn’t even a question, just a mere statement of fact because the bastard was so fucking sure that he was right.

Harry only glared at him. 

Because just because it was true, it didn’t mean Tom was allowed to just mention it.


	10. Chapter 10

Harry should never have let it go _this_ far.

But Tom was _persuasive_ , to say the least. Just little words: ‘only’, ‘just’, ‘perhaps’, little words like that that always got him what he wanted. Including Harry lying down beside him.

Too close.

_Much_ too close.

It was just… _romantic_.

Just… painfully intimate. 

Like they meant something to each other.

“You’re just – just – gorgeous,” Tom murmured, pressing his fingers against Harry’s cheek. Harry should have moved away, but the tips of his fingers were so gentle. And the palm of Tom’s thumb was so soft as it traced his lips, and his eyes were watching the movement so carefully, completely absorbed at that moment, rather like a cat staring at fairy lights. 

Harry really did want to kiss him. 

“You know – I love you – like – I really _love_ you, Harry,” he murmured, his thumb lingering at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I – don’t think you understand just – just how much I love you. I really _really_ love you.”

“I know, Tom.”

“You can’t,” he said dropping his hand away and letting his eyes follow it to the space between them, “you couldn’t possibly _know_.”

“I do. I promise.”

Harry swallowed as Tom tentatively raised his eyes up again, almost like a puppy that had been punished before, and just expected it. Harry shouldn’t even be considering saying what he wanted to say.

But he was. 

He _really_ was.

“How could you – know, Harry?”

Harry sat silently. Tom probably wouldn’t remember this, anything with the power to knock someone so far into another dimension of their personality, would probably knock out their memory in the process, so this might be the only opportunity he ever had to say it.

“It’s a secret.”

It sounded overly theatrical the second that it left his mouth. But Tom had always had a penchant for the dramatic, and that hadn’t changed. His eyes were all wide and hopeful. 

“I like secrets.”

“Well, if you tell me one, Tom, then I’ll tell you mine.”

Tom nodded a little _too_ enthusiastically.

Harry swallowed again. He honestly hadn’t thought that Tom would agree, Tom never shared his secrets. But knowing himself, Harry would probably share too much and Tom would deliberately share too little; getting what he wanted before moving on, unconcerned with the chaos that he left behind. 

Tom was still watching.

Watching and waiting. 

Waiting and watching. 

“I know how much you love me because… because… I think… I love you too, Tom.”

Tom didn’t react for a second and Harry could feel his insides shrivelling up like a flower petal in the heat of the sun.

But then Tom smiled. 

And it was so warm and genuine, like the first strains of sunlight cutting through the fog. In that brief moment, Tom gave him a glimpse of what was underneath all the antagonism and acrimony and argumentativeness that he used as walls around himself. For just a second Harry got to see the softness and the prettiness that oozed between the cracks; the things that Tom hid away because to him, they were vulnerabilities. 

“You’re just so – so sweet, Harry,” Tom murmured, reaching out again, just that little bit, and grazing his fingers along Harry’s upturned arm that lay between them. His nails not digging into the skin, exactly, but scratching with just enough pressure to leave harmless little lines that probably wouldn’t sting.

But they felt nice. 

“Good enough – to eat,” Tom continued, his nails scratching a pattern, all swirls and streaks, dripping right down from the top of his wrist to the elbow crease, down his veins and back up again, always smiling. 

Harry could almost feel what was going to happen, and maybe he should have done something to stop it. But he felt like he was watching from afar, as though he was someone else standing on the other side of the room. And he was seeing Tom smile at him with his glazed eyes and dried blood on his lips. And he was seeing himself smile back. 

He didn’t stop Tom kissing him.

Even though he knew he should. 

Harry was still worlds away when Tom pressed their mouths together and kept them together. When Tom leaned over on his elbows, his face above Harry’s own, Harry still didn’t react like he was meant to because Tom’s mouth tasted lovely; even if his tongue was lazy and his jaw was slack, even if he was all slow and sloppy and uncoordinated, because Tom’s mouth was still _perfect_.

But this wasn’t a perfect moment.

And it would never be. 

“Stop it, Tom. Stop it,” said Harry, gently pushing his mouth away. “You don’t know what you’re fucking doing.”

“I do.”

“You _really_ don’t.”

“I do,” he repeated in a way that just emphasised how much he didn’t. How much a vital part of him was missing, lost to a hurricane of emotions that must be whirling constantly like a blender, inside his head.

“Amortentia isn’t real love, Tom.”

“It’s – barely – barely affected me,” said Tom, still leaning up on his elbows, even though the muscles in his arms must ache. 

That petty arrogance was back again.

Good to know.

“ _You wish_ , it wasn’t affecting you.”

Tom continued to stare, a combination of betrayal and disappointment painting his face. But Harry was entirely prepared to move, leave the room entirely if Tom wouldn’t move. 

And Tom must have realised because he retreated and flopped back onto the duvet; his eyes staring at the light and his fingers now tracing patterns on the pillowcase.

Another mood swing back the other way. 

A part of Harry wanted to leave him just lying there, alone, because he didn’t know what to do with other people’s feelings. But another part of him wanted to touch Tom. To hold him. To run his own fingers down his forearm, or a hand along his back. He wanted to clutch Tom’s hand to his chest, and kiss his lips again, and lie between his hipbones drawing patterns on his stomach. He wanted to taste Tom’s spit and chew at his lip and feel his blood inside his mouth; he wanted to touch with his fingers and taste with his tongue and bite with his teeth.

To simply _feed_ that thing inside him.

The one that had been there ever since the beginning. 

But he’d never really noticed before.

Harry was only just realising, what he wanted was a violent love. Not physically or emotionally but… something else. A savage sort of love. A hungry sort of love. A sort of love where he got to eat Tom up, peel him back to the bones and find the sweet beneath the sour.

All he wanted was a world where Tom’s eyes were stretched with pleasure not narcotic; where he was bleeding because he wanted to be; where he was smiling with his eyes as well as his teeth, and all because _he_ made him smile.

That was all he wanted. 

And he wished…

Wished…

Wished…

Tom wanted that kind of love too.

But he did not say any of those things because Tom did not care to hear them. 

Instead, he just sat, the space between them feeling chasmic, endless really, though Tom’s eyes, settled on the corner of his mouth, acted as the only bridge. 

“Tell me your secret, then, Tom?”

Tom dropped his eyes away from Harry’s face, and began to study his own fingers with too much alacrity; checking the nails and the movements and the colour and the veins, all with more interest that most people would ever pay to themselves. 

“Your secret, Tom.”

Perhaps, he shouldn’t have pushed, but Tom wasn’t going to get secrets out of him without giving anything back; that wasn’t how friendship – though Harry was reluctant to call it such – worked.

Could you really call yourselves friends when one of you was drugged and the other was in love with the first?

Probably not. 

Tom still wasn’t looking at him. 

Avoiding him even. 

“I – I chose Amortentia – because – because – of you,” Tom mumbled uncharacteristically quietly. He must have understood that that didn’t make any sense because, after a few seconds of palpable silence, he continued. 

“I didn’t – know – how else – to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Tell me what, Tom?”

Tom raised his chin and as their eyes met, Harry realised. 

Oh.

_Oh_. 

For just a moment, the whole of time slowed to a single second stretching out into an eternity. But it snapped back just a second later, and before Harry really knew what he was doing, he was scrambling off the bed and into the bathroom.

As soon as the door was locked, he sank down to the floor.

Staring at the tiles, because…

Because…

_Tom might just love him too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this has gone in directions that I didn't expect, but I hope it's alright.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, let me apologise for not updating for a while, I was away for the weekend and then got sick as soon as I got back, so I wasn't able to write anything, unfortunately. 
> 
> However, the small break did allow me to think about where this fic is going and, as you may have seen, I added new tags. I have also decided that this will be a little longer than I first expected, and will generally be a much more light-hearted fic than I have ever attempted before (so, please forgive any oddities, I'm still getting used to this style). I also have a plot and an endgame of sorts (though it'll probably change again soon) in mind, so it should be relatively smooth sailing ahead (and hopefully reasonably frequent updates). 
> 
> If you don't like the direction that this fic starts to go, thank you for reading thus far; your appreciation was and still is, much appreciated, but if you are planning on reading more, I hope you continue to enjoy.

Harry sat in that bathroom for far too long. 

Just watching the tiles. 

Just staring at the ceiling.

Just watching the glinting of the light on the taps.

Just doing anything to _not_ think about Tom. 

To not think of the way he smiled, with his head to the side. Nor to think of how his mouth felt against his own. The texture and the pressure and the weight of Tom’s tongue between Harry’s own teeth. He did not want to think of all those gorgeous things about Tom.  
Well, actually he _did_.

He _absolutely_ wanted to think about _all_ those things. 

But he couldn’t. 

As there were too many other thoughts swirling around his head, like the miniature whirlpool created when the water went down the sink. Just too many thoughts all trying to squeeze through such a tiny space.

Too many emotions to even process. 

Because…

Because…

Tom might just like him. 

Tom might just _like_ him. 

_Tom might just like him._

The thought alone of that, made the whole world spin pretty circles before his eyes and his heart to jump through a hundred hoops. The thought, the simple thought that Tom _might_ like him, as a friend, a something a little more even, was enough to make him almost sick.

The churning in his stomach, as wild and unsure, as the sea when it crashes against the rocks in a storm. Rolling and roiling and riling his heart into a fever until it was not just his heart that was continually collapsing. 

Now it was his entire world. 

That careful, cautious existence that Harry had made his own, was cracking at the edges, and pieces were starting to fall from the sky. Great large pieces that told _everyone_ he could no more maintain the illusion that he had been under for so long. 

Pretending that he did not look at Tom. 

Pretending that he did not enjoy their conversations. 

Pretending that he did not like Tom’s company. 

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

It was so obvious. 

_So fucking obvious_. 

It was just that before now, Harry had never _really_ appreciated _just_ how long he had spent watching Tom instead of doing their work this term, and had been doing that since…

Since…

Forever. 

Ever since he’d first seen Tom on the train when they were both eleven and that feeling had first bubbled up inside him, and he’d only looked on and squeezed his fingers together because he didn’t even understand what that feeling was supposed to be.

It had always felt like something watching him.

Holding his heart between its fingers. 

And just _crushing_ it. 

That was why he was always unsettled when he had to sit beside Tom, and why his good comebacks sometimes got stuck in his throat, and why Tom always accused him of not listening. When they were together there was never any time to listen because Harry had always been too busy drinking in Tom’s image, swallowing up his every expression in the hope that it would satiate that itching inside him. 

And he hadn’t even _realised_ what he was doing. 

It was no wonder then why all his friends rolled their eyes when he talked about Tom. 

Because he must _always_ fucking talk about him. 

Harry could feel himself flushing even if there was no one here to see because they _all_ must know. 

Even worse.

Tom had probably known. 

_Oh why did he confirm it?_

And why would he be so stupid as to tell Tom of all people?

Harry buried his head a little deeper in his hands as though it could block out what had already happened. Black it all out from his memory and he could start the day all over again.

But he couldn’t. 

It didn’t matter though, as long as Tom didn’t remember, everything was going to be fine. Except it wasn’t fine.

And would _never_ be _fine_ because…

Because…

He…

He just told Tom fucking Riddle that he loved him.

And Tom fucking Riddle had told him he loved him back.

Harry banged his head against the door, though he was quite tempted to just lie down on the bathroom tiles and die, right here, right now. 

The only thing that was really stopping him was the fact they were cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was ok; I'm both out of practice in this style and I wrote and edited this whole thing a bit too late at night, so there is probably a multitude of mistakes and whatnot that I'll apologise for now. Sorry.


	12. Chapter 12

Watching the tiles became another form of procrastination.

A way of avoiding going back to the bedroom. 

Harry just sat and watched the tiles, tracing the edge of every single one of them with his eyes just because he did not want to go out and face Tom. 

He did not want to face the reality. 

But he nor could he hide from it forever.

Well, he probably _could_.

But that was taking cowardliness to new levels and _that_ would be frankly shameful. Anyway, what was the worst that could possibly happen? It wasn’t like a seismic shift that occurred; this was nothing more than a tiny little ripple on the surface. There was nothing to stop them from working together as they used to, smiling and talking in the same way as before. 

Except it wouldn’t be the same.

It would feel… 

Off. 

So very off. 

Like furniture moved an inch to the right or a circus mirror warped only a tad; enough to throw them both off, but not enough to talk about it, to acknowledge it. 

What if Tom didn’t even remember?

What if he was joking again?

Harry might just shatter, like a teacup, dropped on the floor, if Tom was just kidding. That glass heart of his was nice to look at, but it would break so easily, and Tom was just the type to break it. 

He was the fucking type who smiled.

And flirted.

And got what he wanted.

And then left that tell-tale trail of broken hearts behind him. 

Not that Harry would let him break his heart.

Sure, in the moment, he’d probably shatter into a hundred million pieces, but he wouldn’t cry to Tom’s face. He wouldn’t let him see quite how much he managed to hurt him.

Though he’d love to see Tom cry. 

To be the one to see that single emotion he suspected no mood swing would ever show him. Tom was too private, too concerned with his image to ever cry in public, but he must, when he was all alone, everyone did. 

Didn’t they?

And Harry wanted to be the one to simply _be_ there.

They could lie next to each other on the floor, and stare at the ceiling, or, sit next to each other on a chair that was too small for two people, or, lie with each other on the bed. Perhaps they could hold hands, fingers nestled between fingers, pads gently touching the knuckles; simply reminding each other that they were there.

Because that’s what people, who were in love, did, wasn’t it?

Harry sighed again and shook his head, trying to get those pathetically mushy thoughts out of his head, because even in the off chance that Tom admitted his feelings when clearheaded, and if they were even real at all. 

He _certainly_ wouldn’t be the sappy type. 

Nothing about Tom was remotely romantic. Charming, certainly; but not loving or warm or passionate. The only things Harry had ever seen Tom _truly_ interested in was work, and his _own_ work at that. So what Tom would be like was a mystery, limited only by Harry’s own imagination. 

And he had quite an imagination. 

Would he be precise with his tongue? 

And rough with his hands? 

And vicious with his teeth? 

Or…

Would he be slow with his mouth?

And lazy with his fingers?

And soft with his lips?

Harry wanted to know. He _really_ wanted to know. He wanted to be the one who _knew_ what Tom was like beneath that careful façade, and he’d already caught the barest glimpses, now he wanted to be the one to undo it all, like the ribbon from around a present.

Because Tom coming apart sounded like the perfect gift. 

But for fuck’s sake, he should _not_ be thinking about that in any way, shape, or form. 

Because they were still in the same mess as before, just now they were, once again, in different rooms. All this hiding and avoiding wouldn’t make the problem go away. If anything, it made it swell; the elephant in the room, pressing them closer and closer to the edges of the walls, squeezing all the air out of their lungs, and all for the sake of sidestepping the inevitable. 

Because it _was_ inevitable. 

What they _really_ needed to do was talk. 

Just talk. 

Like adults. 

Harry swallowed and got up, not bothering to look in the mirror, because he _really_ didn’t want to know how much of a mess he looked right now, and unlocked the door. 

He was a mature, responsible adult with his life completely under control.

It was a good five minutes before he opened the door. 

And the sight that greeted him was not the one he wanted. 

The bedroom was empty.

Completely fucking empty. 

Could Tom not sit still for more than five minutes? Though strictly, it had been more like forty-five, but still, could he not just stay put in one place?

At least there was a note on the bed, though, going closer, it was hardly a fucking note. 

And it certainly suggested that the Amortentia was still having some effect.

For all the words were scrawled together. Tom’s dramatic arches and loops that so characterised his writing were now great caricatures of themselves; too high, too low, too long. Just lines that scarcely made letters, let alone _words_. 

It could have been code for all Harry knew. 

But all that really mattered was Tom was gone.

The fucking idiot that he may or may not be in love with (though it was definitely more may, than, may not), was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise, this was supposed to be out yesterday, but I fell asleep whilst editing, so it had to wait until this evening instead.

It took Harry ages to find even the slightest hint of Tom, and it certainly wasn’t because he wasn’t trying to find him.

He’d never tried to find _anything_ or _anyone_ harder.

But could he find Tom?

No. 

He just wandered around, slowly creeping down corridors and peering around doors whispering Tom’s name like he was his aunt’s treasured pet cat that he had somehow managed to lose. _Although_ , life _would_ be, considerably, easier if Tom was a cat. 

And Tom would probably make quite a good cat, he was certainly contrarious enough, and capricious enough and contentious just for the sake of it. Those qualities, _and_ , Tom also had that distinct prettiness that belonged to cats. A sharpness behind his smile, as though he kept razors in his mouth, and the simple way he moved was markedly cat-like: long lean movements, always sophisticated even if he was just leaning on a desk, his fingers curled under his chin.

Not to mention the way he stretched; elegant to the nth degree. His arms bent above his head and his back arched against the chair. Harry wasn’t going to admit how much he liked it when Tom rolled his head back and his neck was curved into that lovely arch. When Tom tipped his head back, that same line was, once again, on perfect display. 

Just a single faultless strip running from his lips to his collar.

The more Harry thought about it, the more he wanted to touch it, to run his finger up Tom’s throat and see the look in his eyes. He wanted to sit between Tom’s hipbones and press his fingers into Tom’s throat, not to hurt him, but simply to see what he’d do. He wasn’t going to admit it to anyone, but Harry rather hoped that Tom would let him, that Tom would _like_ it. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he might even get to see that lovely lazy smile; the one that Tom reserved only for his _absolute_ favourites. 

The one that made Harry feel all warm and fuzzy inside; a calming static spreading through his stomach. The one feeling that balanced out Tom’s face, and covered the dark cracks like plaster, and seemed to make him even more perfect if that was even possible. 

Not that Harry had been staring at Tom or anything. 

Not at all. 

He just _happened_ to have observed that Tom would make a pretty good cat. 

But that was really _not_ a priority right now. 

The only priority currently should be to find the bastard, which was proving harder than Harry thought it would because, _wow_ , this school was big. Of course, he had always known it was a large building, it taught a vast majority of the witches and wizards in Britain, but still…

Wow.

Just wow. 

Did it really need so many useless corridors?

At least though, it was the holidays and there weren’t many people around, so he didn’t look _too_ weird calling out Tom’s name whilst he crept around like some sort of crazed madman hellbent on finding this ‘Tom’. 

But that was the _only_ good thing. 

Well, apart from thinking of all the things he was most certainly going to do to Tom once he found him again. Starting with some _choice_ words, and preferably ending with the taste of Tom’s mouth on his own, and the imprints of his teeth in Tom’s lip. Not enough to really hurt him, only to mildly maim in the name of gorgeous love.

That was, if he _ever_ found him. 

Because Harry had already searched in no particular order:

The great hall.  
The library.  
The astronomy tower.  
Four abandoned corridors.  
Three empty classrooms.   
Five nooks.   
Six crannies.  
Two windowsills.   
And one alcove.

And Tom actually had the _audacity_ not to be in any of them. 

And, maybe, Harry was getting worried.

Because…

Because…

Whilst a disorientated, exhausted, and not to mention, lovestruck, Tom may have been absolutely adorable in a controlled environment, when set loose, the thought was frankly terrifying. Though Harry wasn’t entirely sure why. 

Perhaps, it was just because he wanted a little part of Tom for himself. 

A vulnerability that was _his_ alone to treasure. 

However selfish that was. 

Eventually, though, and after walking down the same corridor and past the same people three times, Harry had to concede defeat. 

He wasn’t going to find Tom. 

Which was worrying. 

Troubling.

Alarming even. 

It did, briefly, as he was walking back to Tom’s room, cross Harry’s mind that this might, possibly, accidentally be _his_ fault. After all, he was the one to abandon him as soon as he said he might just love him.

What kind of person did that?

Not a friend.

And certainly not a…

A…

A…

A… Whatever he was to Tom. 

He headed back to Tom’s room with a heavy cloud over his head. It pressed into his temples and behind his eyes and started to give him a headache, which was just a perfect end to this wonderful day, really. 

Harry wasn’t even sure what he was going to do once he got to Tom’s room. Was it rude to sit on someone else’s bed waiting for them to come back? Probably. But what else could he do? At the very least, he had to collect the bag that he’d brought with him before this entire fiasco began. Mostly because he knew that somewhere in that bag was a bar of chocolate, and quite frankly he wanted nothing more now than to just lie on Tom’s bed, eating chocolate, and thinking of what a mess this all was. 

Because it was such a fucking mess. 

And some of it might just have been his fault. 

Which was not such a pleasant thought to have to stomach. 

Harry sighed as he came back down the first corridor, nothing looked particularly different other than the door had shut, which wasn’t especially unusual in itself; they were heavy doors, probably charmed to shut for some basic privacy.

But when Harry tried the door, there was a problem. 

It wouldn’t open.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry tried the door again.

And again. 

And again. 

It was very much stuck closed, and these doors didn’t just lock themselves, which could only mean...

Fuck. 

Tom had shut himself in.

_Fuck._

At this rate, those words he was planning to use on Tom were going to be very choice indeed. Hopefully, they’d sting for at least a couple of minutes, and Tom would remember that it wasn’t any fun to mess around with other people’s feelings; directly or indirectly. 

But none of that was going to help _now_. 

Harry took a deep, calm breath and knocked on the door. 

“Tom this is petty,” he said through the door, because he had to be in there somewhere because that door could not lock itself, the only reason that it would be so is if a certain someone had locked it themselves. 

That certain someone being Tom, in all his fucking glory. 

Who just happened to be staying painful silence on the other side of the door.

Harry tried knocking again. 

“Let me in, Tom.”

More fucking silence. 

Merlin, did Tom realise quite how _annoying_ he could be? He probably did, and he probably revelled in it. 

Harry knocked louder. 

“Do you know how childish this looks? Really fucking childish, Tom!”

He probably shouldn’t be _this_ irritated; there were a thousand decent reasons why Tom might have locked himself into his bedroom. But, at the same time, in order to do this, he must have hidden, either in the room or just outside, and then waited like the snake he was until Harry was gone. 

And _now_ he didn’t even have the _decency_ to answer him.

After everything that had just happened. 

Tom had better be unconscious, however bad that would be, otherwise, Harry might just make him so, as soon as he managed to get in there.

_If_ he ever managed to get in there. 

That lovely image of his fingers wrapped around Tom’s throat was back in Harry’s head. The two of them just lying there, feeling Tom’s pulse beating against his fingertips, and maybe they could cast off this cloak of awkwardness, and he could touch Tom’s hands, and Tom could kiss his jaw, and somehow he could climb on top of Tom and use his tongue to trace that lovely line. 

Their bodies would fit nicely together. 

If only Tom would stop being so…

So…

Much like himself. 

Because this was Tom all over. His intelligence equalled only by his profound sense of pettiness, that he knew would absolutely get to Harry. 

And it was working. 

_Really working._

So much for fucking talking about the problem, and then dealing with it like _adults_ , no, they’d just skip all that and continue on in infinite immaturity. 

And still, there was silence. 

“Oh, just – fuck you, Tom,” he said, kicking the door and hurting his foot. 

_Great._

Just great. 

Harry took a deep breath, clearly being threatening wasn’t his forte, but that was _hardly_ a surprise, he had about as much menacing as an angry kitten, with all its hair standing on end and a cute little hiss on the tip of its tongue. 

Not like Tom. 

Tom was _threatening_ in a way that was just so...

So…

So…

Sexual. 

Even if it made Harry flush to think about. 

_Tom just oozed it._

He simply had a way with other people. A tendency to stand too close and to drag his eyes all over them until they were absolutely squirming. A habit of smiling and holding their chins while his friends stood by. 

Harry had seen once. 

Unintentionally, of course. 

But he’d still seen. 

Watched in silence as Tom had traced someone’s jaw, listening to them as they stuttered something he pretended to be apathetic about. Everything had been relatively normal, until Tom smiled, and switch inside him had been flicked, rather like when he had been joking around earlier. 

And oh.

_Oh._

It had looked good.

_Very good._

Harry couldn’t quite describe the look that he had seen on Tom’s face, but he could still feel it in his stomach, that smile on the knife’s edge of cruelty, an equal distance from both sadistic intent, and masochist longing. Tom had looked like he wanted to strip them and push his fingers between their ribs until his nails scratched their hearts. He reminded Harry of a leopard stalking its prey, but already thinking about taking it apart, and eating every ounce. 

It was not something that should have been alluring.

But the dexterity with which Tom deprived people of their composure.

And their morals. 

And their common decency.

Was just…

_Hypnotic._

But _he_ was not Tom; he lacked that essential elegance and finesse of a predator, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t entirely predacious, only that he had not yet found his style of confrontation. 

Though this was _really_ not the time to be musing of potential similarities between the darker sides of their personalities, because Harry was still stuck on the wrong side of the fucking door. 

“Just let me in, would you?” he said a little calmer than before, though he was sure Tom would be able to hear the grit in his teeth as he said it, that sound of his grinding him molars was absolutely echoing through his head.

More silence.

“Tom, please let me in?” 

Harry could practically feel Tom’s smug little smile digging into his skin, at the thought that he’d made _Harry_ be _nice_ when this was technically all _his_ fault.

That stupid gorgeous smile. 

“Tom, _please_?” he said quietly.

Or rather _simpered_. 

Because the cadence with which he spoke sounded utterly pathetic on his tongue. A mixture of needy and sentimental and desperate, and sprinkled with sugar until they were much too _sweet_ , much too _artificial_ , like sweets swirled with preservatives. They looked nice but there was a bitter aftertaste of manipulation, and Tom did not like being manipulated, so it was hardly a wonder when he still didn’t open the door. 

That didn’t stop it hurting a little though. 

“Tom, you’d better have a – _really_ good reason for not letting me in, right now.” 

No response. 

Harry knocked his forehead against the door. 

Repeatedly. 

And he didn’t stop until he heard footsteps coming down the corridor, and by then it was too late. A Slytherin sixth year, he vaguely recognised, was coming past, just in time to see him banging his head against the door in the picture of utter despair. So pitiful that it could have almost certainly won a prize as a photo you could feel under your skin.  
.  
They looked at each other as she passed by, her eyebrows raised and the rest of her face set in just the right way to tell Harry that he was definitely starting to resemble that madman in his mind’s eye.

And who wouldn’t be confused, at the very least?

He, a reasonably respectable student, was literally standing outside the head boy’s private room, banging his head against the door and making vague pleas to be let in. Which was _just_ great because now this was going to be around the whole school by tomorrow, at the latest, and it would reach everyone else by next week. 

He sank down to the floor.

He didn’t even have any chocolate. 

Could this day actually get any fucking worse?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't had a reliable enough wifi to update this recently, so, please accept an extra long chapter by way of apology.

Harry had sat outside Tom’s door for at least another hour before realising he probably wasn’t going to be let in any time soon. 

Or potentially ever. 

Which was just _fantastic_. 

Because, one, he didn’t have his bag, two, they hadn’t done the essay, three, Tom was still a wreck, and four, he had no fucking clue whether Tom loved him, liked him, or anything in between. 

And that was just the _worst._

Harry didn’t see Tom for the rest of the day, not even for dinner, and he hadn’t missed him, he couldn’t have when he’d sat there for the entire evening, just waiting to see if he would turn up. 

It was then that Harry had started to wonder whether he should have done something, told someone, anyone, that maybe, possibly, perhaps there’d been and very tiny accident and their esteemed head boy wasn’t, altogether, in one piece. 

But that would have been signing his own death warrant.

Tom would have almost certainly killed him as soon as he next saw him. 

Probably more than once, if that was possible. 

So, yeah, Harry wasn’t telling anyone, anytime soon. 

After all, Tom would work through it, he always worked through it, and if they were lucky, there wouldn’t be any lasting effects, and Tom wouldn’t remember a thing, and they could put this embarrassing saga behind them and go back to being exactly what they were before this whole disastrous incident occurred. 

Somehow, Harry couldn’t quite see it turning out quite _that_ well. 

The next morning, Harry got to breakfast especially early, after all, Tom was self-preserving and self-preserving generally involved eating every once in a while. And he _did_ want to see him functioning to the barest minimum standard.

Just to know he hadn’t killed himself for an essay. 

That was all it was. 

Not because he really cared about Tom, because what was the point in caring about someone who probably didn’t really feel the same?

So, he grabbed some toast, and a cup of tea, and sat down to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Several times, Harry felt younger students’ eyes resting on his back and his face and him in general, clearly the rumours were already doing the rounds. Rumours of him standing outside Tom’s door, looking entirely pathetic as he banged his head on the door and _just_ begged to be let in. 

Like some sort of spurned lover. 

Harry ignored them.

He was used to people staring; this was hardly new. 

The only real _interesting_ thing to happen that morning was Mulciber arriving. 

He was the only other Slytherin seventh year staying over the holidays. Harry watched him arrive at eight and look slightly confused as he scanned the sparsely filled hall; he was obviously looking for Tom.

That made two of them. 

Mulciber checked his watch three times before he sat down in his usual place, presumedly to wait around for Tom. He didn’t eat anything, until eight-thirty, when he had given up waiting and had started slowly working his way through a bowl of cereal; eating it flake by flake. Somehow, Mulciber managed to string the cereal out until nine, but after that, he just started working his way through a cup of black tea. 

Harry would have called him pathetic, if, he himself hadn’t arrived here at seven for exactly the same reason.

Both their teas were long cold by the time Tom actually managed to drag himself to breakfast. 

Which was half-past fucking nine, nearly two hours later than usual, not that Harry knew that figure exactly, it was just something he’d noticed casually. He tried to be casual now as he watched Tom wander, slightly more aimlessly than usual, towards his usual seat near the far end.

The one Harry had ever-so-casually placed himself near. 

Tom looked fine. 

Until he turned around, then oh…

 _Oh_.

He was _not_ looking so good from the front. 

Whether Mulciber noticed was debatable, but he certainly did not look impressed, though before he could say anything, Tom shot him a look that was nothing short of murderous. The sort, that, if looks could kill, the Great Hall would have been absolute carnage. 

Mulciber backed off. 

In fact, everyone backed off. Including an innocent little third that had probably only come close to ask a question but got shot down with the same death-glare, they went in the other direction faster than Harry had ever seen anyone move outside of a quidditch lesson. 

Poor kid.

Harry watched them leave the room shortly after, just to pretend he wasn’t _just_ here to watch Tom. But as much as he tried not to, Harry’s eyes were always drawn back to Tom. He watched carefully, and he liked to think subtly, hidden behind one of the pitchers of orange juice. Though it probably wasn’t quite as stealthy as he liked to imagine. 

It was almost certainly ridiculous, like when military cars covered themselves in leaves and were still obvious to everyone who bothered looking.

He could only try. 

Staring, whilst sipping his cold tea, as Tom got himself something that definitely looked and smelled, even from this distance, like coffee.

Which was fucking unfair.

Because, as far as Harry knew, coffee had effectively been banned since that incident with the Ravenclaw third years, last year. Not to mention Tom was exactly the sort that said with a smirk that _he_ didn’t need caffeine in order to perform basic life functions, Harry had heard him use that exact phrase at least four times this year. 

He was _such_ a hypocrite. 

But, then again, Tom sure looked like he needed something caffeinated to stop him collapsing right here and now. 

He just didn’t look – 

Put together. 

Not even remotely. 

Normally, Tom was the picture of order, _even_ first thing in the morning. But right now, he could only be described as a fucking mess. His hair was in complete disorder like some had dragged their fingers through several times, to try and mimic a semblance of calm; and he didn’t look like he’d slept at all last night, which, to be fair, he probably hadn’t. 

Even from this distance, Harry could see the dark circles under Tom’s eyes, and the tautness in his shoulders, rather like he was trying to keep perfectly still in order to avoid something inside him grating painfully together. Not to mention, his hands must have been shaking because, as much as he tried, Tom’s coordination was entirely off. 

In less than five minutes he had managed to knock over the salt three times. 

It was just that everything about Tom was skewed, like watching him through a carnival mirror, but not in the good way that it had been before. This was not the languorous, indolent sort of lazy Tom had been yesterday afternoon, this was much more…

More…

Ungainly.

Bordering on inept. 

This was not even remotely like Tom. 

And Harry suspicions were only confirmed when he watched Tom pour a good four teaspoons of sugar into his coffee, though it was probably more like three and a half as the spoon caught the side of the mug and spilt several hundred granules onto his toast.

He didn’t seem to care, or even notice. 

He only continued spreading more butter than anyone could possibly need for a single slice of bread, which was weird in itself because Tom usually ate his toast plain.

Which was quite frankly weird too. 

But still not quite as weird as someone slavering their toast until it was absolutely dripping, butter running down their fingers creating a picture that must have been classified somewhere between depravity and eroticism. Well, not just anyone’s fingers, Tom’s fingers. 

Tom’s stupidly gorgeous fingers.

That he had the audacity to just dip straight into the closest sugar bowl, whilst glaring at Mulciber’s understandably slightly concerned face. 

It should have been disgusting.

Really disgusting.

But somehow, Tom managed to make even the most disgusting thing look ridiculously sexy.

Mulciber was rolling his eyes as Tom began to lick the sugar off, shamelessly sucking each finger from base to tip, and rolling them in his mouth and swirling them over his tongue. Once, he even dipped them back into, what he had now claimed as his own personal sugar bowl, and repeated. Sucking even slower if that was possible. Just licking the length with the flat of his tongue before working the pads with the very tip of his tongue. 

Harry swallowed. 

Fuck. 

No one should be allowed to do _that_ in a public place, and least of all, someone as good looking as Tom, who even in the height of his disarray still looked painfully delectable. 

Like a fucking snack. 

Or rather a goddamn three-course dinner. 

Merlin, Harry was blushing because if there was _anything_ he should _not_ be thinking about, it was licking sugar off Tom’s fingers at ten ‘o’clock on a Tuesday morning. 

But he was. 

He _most certainly_ was thinking of doing just that. 

Harry was snapped out of his happy and more than slightly indecent little fantasy when Tom started to get up to leave, and it was now or never to talk to him.

_If he even wanted to talk to him._

And now that he thought about it, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what his aim had actually been this morning. Tom obviously hadn’t died, so he was alright on that charge; but, then again, he still kind of wanted to talk to him. Maybe have a proper conversation like the adults they basically were.

But then again, again, this probably wasn’t the best place to be drawing attention to himself, or to Tom, just in case anyone _hadn’t_ noticed how out of it their head boy had already been this morning. And anyway, there were enough rumours going around without him adding to the list, so he shouldn’t do anything rash. 

Unfortunately, the rest of his brain didn’t seem to get that memo. 

“Tom!” he called out across the entire fucking hall. 

_Fuck._

That was the complete opposite of everything he meant to do, and the second after the words left his mouth, Harry regretted them because now everyone was watching, including Tom. 

Especially Tom. 

“Potter,” he said, without raising his voice a decibel above what it should have been, and somehow keep his tone completely monotonous; no rise in timbre or pitch, or anything that might indicate either hatred or affection. Just an endless apathy. 

Well, it would be worse to stop now, right?

“We need to talk, Tom.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

“Later.”

Well, least this part of Tom hadn’t changed.

He was still argumentative and stubborn and generally irritating. 

Which was probably why Harry wanted to push all the boundaries. The words were on the tip of his tongue; that desire to drive Tom up the wall, just as much as he always did to him. That want to make Tom feel just a fraction of the irritation and annoyance and absolute despair that he had put Harry through in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Now, Tom.”

For a moment Tom’s eyes caught his own, and he glared, distinctly aware that almost everybody in this entire hall, which to be granted wasn’t too many, was watching them. 

He turned away and started walking towards the door. 

“Tom, wait,” he said grabbing his wrist. 

Tom stopped. 

“You have thirty seconds to let go, and tell me what you want.”


	16. Chapter 16

For at least a second, the two of them were standing completely still. Harry’s hand still holding Tom’s wrist too tightly, one of his fingers pressing into the skin. The other still holding a glass of orange juice he’d picked up like some idiot and had forgotten to put down. The angle was off and entire action felt odd, but, maybe, it was just because everyone was so obviously watching. At least twenty pairs of eyes, some more subtle than others, were staring at them. 

This was probably the most exciting thing to happen in a while.

And they weren’t going to miss a second. 

But still, something else felt…

Really off.

Entirely wrong. 

Tom was too tense. His whole body rigid; coiled up like a spring and, if Harry’s wasn’t mistaken, he was back to chewing his lip before it had had any sort of chance to heal, something Tom had certainly never done before. All that, and there was another feeling too. 

A heat was suddenly lapping at Harry’s skin like waves caressing the sand. He could feel it spreading from his finger that was touching Tom’s skin, right to his chest, and it only got more intense as it spread beyond. A mild pressure that began by clutching at his lungs squeezing them in its fist, before starting to press against his heart.

Harry swallowed and shook his head.

It was just the attention; he’d never been good with people watching him like this. It always made him nervous and his words clog his throat and his palms get all clammy. People just made him awkward.

Tom’s voice cut into his thoughts. A, nice, grounding, sound that caught hold of him before he would be swept off into the swirling cyclone that his thoughts were rapidly becoming. 

“You have twenty seconds.”

Harry blinked. Tom was still faced away from him and was still too tense, and, apparently, he’d been serious about the countdown. 

“Look at me first,” Harry said, though he wasn’t sure why; it wasn’t strictly necessary to see Tom’s face to talk to him. But, then again, he hadn’t seen Tom _properly_ this morning, and _maybe_ , he cared a little more than he probably should how Tom was. 

Tom didn’t move.

“Look at me, Tom, or you’re not playing fair.”

He said it just loud enough for _everyone_ to hear. Just loud enough for everyone to _know_. And for a second, Tom’s perfect, or, at least, relatively perfect, façade stumbled, and he hesitated, because, whilst Tom might always have played a little less than fair, but he certainly didn’t like the fact to be pointed out. 

Harry could practically hear Tom swallowing, trying to decide which option was the least worst. Apparently, it was turning around to look at him, and – 

Oh, fuck.

_That_ was the reason he’d been so reluctant. 

It was only this close up that Harry could see it. That dark, red, film still stuck across Tom’s eyes, not nearly as murky or intense as before, but certainly not _good_ either. It clung to him like a sunset does to the sky, continuing to glow even when the source itself was long out of sight. A velvety veneer of crimson that was a little too striking when Tom looked right at him.

“You have ten seconds.”

“We – we need to talk…” Harry mumbled, trying not to stare at how pretty Tom looked with his, too smooth to be real, skin, and black forest gateau eyes because they were… wow. 

Just _wow_ , really. 

They were somehow softer with the shades of red curling through them, warmer, safer almost. But, at the same time, and it might have just been Tom’s expression, they still held that threat to them. A promise that Tom could either make life considerably nastier or considerably more pleasurable, entirely depending on what mood he was in. Although it was ever so clichéd, Harry could just fall into those eyes, drown in them and choke on them.

Tom coughed. 

Harry blinked again, blushing this time because he’d been staring at him without saying anything for far too long now. “Oh – yes, we need to talk – about yesterday.”

“No, we don’t.”

Trust Tom to be so fucking stubborn, even when everything was clearly not going according to any sort of plan that they had established, he was still unwilling to back down. Typical. Just typical. Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but he supposed he thought Tom was better than that. That, maybe, just maybe, he’d see the benefit in actually getting some help. 

“I really think we need to talk,” Harry hissed leaning as close as he could without this looking any weirder than it already did, “because, in case you hadn’t noticed, _Tom_ , you look a mess.”

Tom only chewed on his lip a little harder, his tongue licking up the inevitable blood that dribbled out.

“It’s completely under control,” he said between bites. 

Harry had to bite his own tongue to stop himself making an entirely inappropriate sound, because this was not under any sort of fucking control, and if Tom thought that it was, Harry absolutely did not want to see what his idea of chaos was.

Tom would probably think he could have the apocalypse ‘completely under control’. 

“But, Tom, we still need to talk about it.”

“No, we don’t.” 

_Childish_. That was what this was. Fucking childish. And there was no way he was going to let Tom get away with playing the same, annoying, immature game as last time. 

“Don’t be so fucking stubborn, Tom!”

After that, the silence in the hall was palpable. The absence of words bouncing off every wall and reflecting back at them, until the silence was stretched out and became painfully uncomfortable.   
_Perhaps, Harry shouldn’t have put it quite like that._

“Time’s up. Let go of me,” said Tom, suspiciously unconcerned with being called out in front of everyone, or at least, some people. Though, if Harry looked a little closer, Tom definitely looked a little rattled; there was a panic under his skin that he was doing his absolute best to control and was clearly failing.

Harry could see it, almost feel it, dripping from every inch of him. 

“No,” Harry found himself saying, after all, if Tom was allowed to be stubborn, then so was he.

Tom tried tugging his arm. 

“Let go of me, or I will – ”

Something inside Harry snapped then, because why did _he_ have to keep being the mature one? Tom was older and apparently more responsible than he was, so why couldn’t he, for fucking once, be the adult that he actually was.   
“Or what? What can you possibly do to me here, Tom? You want to hex me right now, fine, then do it. But you wouldn’t want to ruin that perfect reputation of yours, would you?”

Tom’s hard stare turned into a glare, and the chewing on his lip intensified until the slightest tinges of blood started to coat his teeth. Harry swallowed, suddenly regretting everything. He had never been on the receiving end of one of Tom’s glowers before, and it was rather _intimidating_ , to say the least. Sort of like being dug into, having a garden spade thrust repeatedly into his heart and all his insides scraped out. And now that he thought about it, that same feeling of something pressing and squeezing and crushing his lungs was only getting stronger now. 

And it hurt. 

Like, a lot. 

As though someone had just reached through his ribcage and was now pulling his heart apart with their bare hands. Just someone digging their fingers through the arteries and stretching him out, wrenching him apart from the inside. 

It was the sort of thing that Tom would do.

_Exactly his style._

To hurt without anyone ever knowing, and frankly, Harry didn’t want to know what he was doing to him, he just wished it didn’t hurt his heart so much, or that he didn’t feel so hot and achy. 

“Stop it, Tom.”

“Stop what?” he said, teeth still threatening to go throw his lip and the fingers on his spare hand starting to tap against his thigh. 

He looked nervous, but not guilty, which was weird. 

“Whatever you’re doing.”

“But I’m _not_ doing anything.”

“Yes, you fucking are, Tom!” he said, raising his voice more than it needed to be, and giving people far more insight into this argument than they deserved to have. If their relationship, whatever it was, hadn’t been the talk of the school by yesterday evening, it certainly would be by _this_ evening. 

“I promise, I’m _not_ doing _anything_ to you, Harry.”

“Just fucking stop it, alright.”

He shouldn’t be pushing the point so much, but it felt like a matter of principle now. Tom might lie to other people, but he’d never lied to Harry before, and now was really not a good time to start, because that just meant Tom didn’t think he was any different, and if Tom didn’t care about him then – then – 

“Harry,” Tom said, dragging out his name until it got his attention, “I can’t stop what I’m not doing; now would you _please_ let go of me,” he mumbled, and as much as Harry was sure he had tried to hide it, there was a hint desperation to Tom’s tone. As though he was distracted by something. Like he too had something digging into his skin and hurting his insides and just wanted to work out what it was.

And, like that, Tom just looked so wretched, so hopeless, as though he finally understood he couldn’t control everything he ever felt. That, try as he might, there were more powerful things in the world than him; for however much he wished it or decreed it, he could not change the weather or the seasons, or even the feelings that other people had for him, or that _he_ had for other people.

And Harry just, sort of, wanted to kiss him. 

To show him that sometimes it didn’t matter that he couldn’t control _everything_. To show him that whatever this mess they were in was, it was probably fixable. 

But then Tom was swallowing and gritting his teeth and trying once again to forcefully pull his arm out of Harry’s grip, and whatever moment had been stirring was swiftly extinguished. 

Of course, _Tom_ would manage to find a way of backing out of any _remotely_ romantic moment. 

_Bastard._

“Fine Tom, I believe you, but please – just _talk_ to me.”

If Tom had ever had any other feelings, he buried them then. Threw them down into the pit of his stomach and probably hoped that they would never be seen again, maybe even, that they would rot away and become no more. He swallowed, and with it, the last looks of apprehension left his eyes and his face was back to that polished façade that looked so out of place when the rest of him was such a mess. 

“We’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

Harry threw the glass of orange juice over him.

And there was an audible gasp that seemed to echo around the room. Someone was even ridiculous enough to drop the spoon they’d been eating their cereal with. It clattered in their bowl and only served to amplify the silence that followed. 

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Harry swallowed.

He hadn’t entirely meant to do that, but he’d certainly meant to do something. Trust his brain to come up with probably the least appropriate this aside from actually kissing him. 

“We have a lot to say to each other, _Tom_.”

Okay, that was _definitely_ a mistake. 

For immediately Tom’s face deepened again to murderous, though it was a different sort of look to the one he’d worn when he’d first come down to breakfast. This was more of a mixture of shock, denial and frustration, all swimming like multicoloured fish across Tom’s face. For a moment, he stood still, the juice just dripping off of him.

To be honest it had been quite a good shot.

But whatever emotion Tom was going to settle on, he did _not_ look pleased.

Harry took a step back.

“I’m sorry, that was – sort of – an accident?”

Even he didn’t sound convinced by his own pathetic excuse. 

And Tom certainly wasn’t convinced. 

Tom took a step forward. 

Harry took another back, trying to maintain some sort of distance because Tom could be unpredictable, and who was to say he _didn’t_ have a contingency plan for situations like this? Certainly not Harry. 

The brutal light of the sun cutting through the windows definitely wasn’t helping matters, it struck Tom’s face at _just_ the right angle to be both intimidating, and unfairly gorgeous, and he looked like he was about to say something but, before he could, Mulciber interrupted them. Harry hadn’t honestly thought Mulciber was so light on his feet, but in less than five seconds he was between him and Tom, apparently having been briefed in the art of damage control, probably by Malfoy.

“He’s not worth it, Riddle,” he said, one hand almost touching him, but probably thinking better of it, and letting it hover awkwardly just in front of his shoulder. Tom opened his mouth, perhaps to protest but after a momentary glance around the room, he promptly closed it again, letting whatever he had wanted to say die on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am way out of my depth, I have no idea what I'm doing, and I'm sorry if this wasn't great.


	17. Chapter 17

Harry did not _purposefully_ avoid Tom for the next few days.

He wouldn’t do something so childish. 

Except he was. 

_He really was_. 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of Tom because in no meaning of the word, was he _afraid_ , he would just rather not have to deal with him. That was all. Tom was bad enough when he was normal, but now, he was an absolute mess and…

And…

Clearly, there were repercussions that they hadn’t properly considered, or rather, that _Tom_ hadn’t properly considered. So, it was probably for the best that he did his utmost to avoid any conflicts. They could just give each other some, much needed, space and wait for all this to blow over, and then they could go back to being reluctant study partners. 

Harry groaned. 

Oh, who was he actually _kidding?_

There was no way he’d be able to go back to just being study partners with Tom. Not when there was the possibility that Tom might actually like him. Not to mention that Tom had locked him out which wasn’t a good sign, and then he’d managed to throw juice all over him.

It wasn’t exactly a brilliant start to a blossoming romance. 

Or even a vaguely cooperative acquaintanceship. 

If only he _knew_.

If Harry knew whether or not Tom _really_ liked him, then this would all be _so_ much easier. That way he would know whether it was even worth moping like an idiot, or whether he needed to just get over it and start moving on with life. 

Just fuck Tom and fuck his stupid ambiguity. 

Harry sighed. He was lying on his bed, alone in the dormitory, staring at the ceiling and wondering how on earth they’d managed to end up in this situation. Or rather, how _he_ had managed to be dragged into a mess that, for once, wasn’t _entirely_ of his own making. 

It made a change for it to be someone else’s fault. 

A pleasant change. 

His friends should be proud of him. And part of him regretted not going home with them for the Easter break when they’d offered; if he had, then he wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place. He could have been having fun on the beach or something, not sitting in his room wondering if the most impossible human being he had ever met liked him or not. 

It was like he was fourteen again and having his first crush. 

He might as well have gone outside and sat on the grass and picked at the daisies that grow all over the lawns. He might as well have sat and pulled the petals off one by one and played with those words that every single person who’s ever been in love has dallied with. 

They love me.

They love me not. 

They love me.

They love me not. 

They love me. 

Harry blushed and rolled onto his stomach. Why was he like this? Why did he have to _feel_ things so much? Too much anyone would say. He didn’t want to leave this room, and technically he could stay in this exact spot forever, no one could make him do anything, least of all work with Tom. But then they’d start asking questions. 

Urgh, life would probably be easier if the bed would just eat him. If the quilt would swallow him and the mattress digest him. Everything would just be fucking easier Tom wasn’t so…

So…

Like himself. 

But then again, Harry wouldn’t have him any other way. 

He sighed again and looked out the window, but all he could see from this angle was the way the clouds were cut open by a shaft of sunlight, like Tom’s smile across a room it lit up the sky.

_Fuck_ , he was doing it again. 

Harry buried his head under his pillow as though it could block out the world and stop him having to admit that maybe he was losing control of his heart. Under there, in the almost suffocating black, it was like lying Tom’s eyes, or in the spaces between his emotions.

Somewhere between anger and fear. 

If he squeezed his eyes shut, so hard that stars painted themselves in pretty patterns before his lids, Harry could _almost_ forget, just how much he wanted Tom to like him back.

_Almost_. 

Knowing him, the feeling would probably never go away. Probably there would be some sort of class reunion in twenty years and he would come back, happily married, with kids, and he’d see Tom and all these stupid feelings would rise from the deep, again. 

His only consolation would be Tom suffering in exactly the same way. 

Thinking of suffering, that pain was still there. That one from before. A mild sensation, somewhere between a burning and a pressure. Just a weight against his heart, not as sharp as it had been when he’d held Tom’s wrist, but definitely still _there_. It was always there. A dull ache, almost like someone’s hands were inside his ribcage and were pressing their thumb into his muscles. 

And nothing helped. 

It was just annoying. 

If his friends were here, they’d make him go to the hospital wing, but that just seemed like an overreaction. It wasn’t like he was sick, or dying, or even that much in pain. All it was, was a minor irritation, probably just…

Just…

Heartburn or something like that. 

At least, that was what he was going to tell himself until someone told him otherwise. 

The _> only_ reason that Harry _might_ drag himself to the hospital wing, was to see if Tom was there, because he _was_ , admittedly, a little curious to know if Tom was hurting like he was. He certainly looked like he had been. But then again, so much was still happening to his insides at that point, that his outward appearance probably wasn’t a good judge of how he was feeling. 

It had been enough though, enough to get _everyone’s_ attention.

By now, anyone who was anyone knew what had happened.

They’d probably sent letters home to tell everyone else. 

And they had started staring at him now. Whenever Harry went anywhere, he could feel their eyes burning into the back of his head, cutting a hole into his skull like they were trepanning him. Though it was not for his benefit, but for their own morbid curiosity. 

He couldn’t help but be resentful of them.

That they apparently had nothing better to be doing with their lives than to stare at him, for their eyes to act as spades digging his social grave. And, _of course_ , their eyes did not trail to Tom. He was awarded privacy and space and solitude. That fucker could do whatever he wanted, and people would never stare.

Because Tom was perfect.

So fucking perfect. 

He could probably outright murder someone and they’d still give him an award.

And maybe, well yes, maybe Harry _did_ want to make him slightly less perfect. Not in a cruel way. He didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to mar that lovely skin, but he’d love to make it flush like the new spring blossom that he could see out the window from the library. There was something lovely in the idea of Tom’s skin being painted with a hundred flower-petal shades of pink.

Almost something cruel. 

How he would force him to acknowledge how he felt. Harry would love to open up the floodgates with his teeth. He would honestly pay, quite a lot, just to get to watch Tom lose what was left of his composure; he’d pay even more to get to be the one to do it.

To be the one who stripped Tom of his self-control. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck. 

This was becoming a problem. 

He should _not_ be thinking of Tom like _that_. 

It was just a _stupid_ thing to do because Harry knew he should just forget it. He knew that, in all likelihood, Tom had just been teasing him. Getting under his skin because that was the thing Tom did best. For him, ripping people apart from the outside was no fun, all the fun came from curling up inside their hearts and just tearing them open from the _inside_. 

Like an infection. 

But a pretty one. 

Tom would probably do just enough to get a rumour going. Something subtle, petty, and social paralysing; enough to irritate Harry without outright ruining his life, because that’s the sort of person he was.

And when Tom started a rumour there was no use denying it.

He’d just have to live it out. 

Though, perhaps people would forget quick enough. After all, despite his antics of the past week, there was already a new rumour going around. Harry had heard whispers of it when he went to breakfast, either far too early or far too late, either would do to avoid Tom. They were just smooth murmurs through the air that Malfoy was coming back.

Just what he needed. 

_That prat_. 

The rumours shouldn’t be getting as much attention as they were. 

Because from the second that Tom wasn’t functioning how he should, it had been known to everyone that Malfoy would be coming back; given he was such a _necessity_ for damage control, and probably substituted as a mood stabiliser more often than he should.

If anything, it was strange he hadn’t got here already. 

Harry would have thought that the slightest indication that something was wrong with Tom, would have been enough to drag Malfoy back from whatever social life he maintained. After all, no one could have such a zealous commitment to someone else without making sacrifices, and Malfoy was nothing if not zealous. 

But he wasn’t here. 

That much was obvious. When Malfoy was around, you knew about it. He had that way of being curt and intrusive; the blunt force trauma compared to Tom’s surgical precision. Malfoy lacked the patience to be a proper predator. He lacked the artifice and the sophistry.

Harry didn’t know where those particular words came from or why they suddenly appeared in his head; they were too sophisticated to have come from his own mind. So, they were probably borrowed from Tom’s tongue. He had such a pretty way with language; such artistry, as though he were a spider whose webs were made of words. 

Merlin, he needed to _stop_ thinking about Tom. 

So, as bad as it was, Harry tried to think of Malfoy. Irritating Malfoy, who always came when he was called. 

Except he hadn’t come yet. 

Which could only mean, Tom hadn’t called him. 

And if Tom hadn’t called him, it meant Tom had kept this all a secret. Harry didn’t really want to acknowledge how that thought made his stomach twist like a lemon being squeezed in some particularly fastidious hands. For if Tom had stayed as silent as the grave on _this_ subject, then maybe…

Just maybe…

There was a reason he wanted to keep it quiet.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter wasn't supposed to be out so soon, but my brain was actually being cooperative for once, and as I've been a little poor at updating recently I thought you all probably deserve three in one day.

It took him three full days to work up the guts to go to Tom’s room and try to his get his bag, at the very least, back. Ideally, Tom would let him in, and they would talk, and they would work all this out like proper adults, and everyone would be happy. 

Harry doubted anything in his life would ever go so smoothly. 

The first sign that something was off when going to Tom’s room was the muffled commotion coming from inside. Harry could hear it even from the other end of the corridor. The shouts, which they undeniably were, were subdued by the walls, but even they couldn’t dim _that_ much noise, only enough to stop the exact words being audible. 

For a moment Harry wondered why no one had bothered to cast a silencing charm, before remembering, no one came down here. Not even the head girl, she had her own rooms on the other side of the school. It was just Tom. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone down here who could hear. 

He should have turned around then and there.

But, when had he ever passed up an opportunity to listen to Tom? 

Harry went closer to the door, that same lovely door he’d banged his head against and kicked until his foot hurt. The same lovely door that Tom had used to lock him out. Harry wasn’t sure how long he stood there staring sentimentally at the fucking door before he was cut abruptly from his thoughts by now audible shouting on the other side. 

“I will _not_ have that brat ruin my life.”

Well _that_ was a great start. It was definitely Tom’s smooth tone, albeit less smooth than usual, more irritated, more serrated. But that was hardly new. And though Tom could have been talking about anyone, the only person Harry had ever heard him call a brat, was _him_ ; several weeks ago, when they’d been arguing. It wasn’t cruel, and he’d most certainly called Tom things that were far worse, both to his face and behind his back. 

Tom had even smiled in that infuriating way when he’d said it. 

Like he knew how petty it was. 

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” said another voice that Harry recognised as Malfoy’s clipped tone, infused with more authority than it deserved. It wasn’t an unpleasant voice, merely one that wasn’t nearly as pleasurable to listen to as Tom’s. 

Tom always spoke slower, his words considered, careful and usually concise. There was no need to say more than a little because there so much power behind each and every word. But with Malfoy, it was quantity over quality. He said too much and most of it lacked any substance at all, just artless airy words that decorated the spaces between Tom’s meaningful ones. 

“Oh, shut up, Malfoy.”

Apparently, _even_ Tom’s favourites had been relegated to surnames, which, if anything, was rather a comfort; at least, it wasn’t just him. 

“What? I’m just saying.”

“Well don’t.”

Tom’s words held a bite that they hadn’t before, one that Harry had only heard a couple of times, usually when one of Tom’s friends pushed something just a little too far. When they made comments that crossed the very thin line between teasing and snarking. Usually, Tom didn’t snap in front of other people, such an act would ruin his reputation and everything, but he had once.

Just once. 

And it had been gorgeous. 

Though Harry suspected if Mulciber hadn’t been there, he would have snapped again that time at breakfast. 

Now though, it had gone suspiciously silent in the room, and Harry considered stepping away from the door, lest someone burst through it suddenly. But, surely, he’d hear the footsteps beforehand? Especially if it was Malfoy leaving, because _he_ always wore shoes with a heel that clicked. 

It was fucking annoying usually. 

But right now, it could be a real advantage. 

So, instead of pulling away, Harry just leaned closer, his ear pressed against the door, not that he exactly had to strain to hear Tom’s rather loud words. 

“I want Lestrange. Here. Now,” he said, and Harry could imagine him pacing in that way he always did when he was stressed, just pacing up and down like a caged apex predator waiting to be fed. Although Tom would definitely say otherwise, Harry had always found it rather cute the way he paced. It was just so predictable that someone like him would be so unable to keep still. 

Malfoy interrupted his thoughts. 

“Well, you can’t have him. _Here. Now_ ,” he said with a certain degree of spite that most other people wouldn’t dare to use on Tom. 

“Excuse me?” Tom all but hissed. 

_Maybe Malfoy shouldn’t have used that tone after all._

“Lestrange is in Singapore, as I’m sure you are aware. And I am sure you also remember why. If you recall, it’s his sister’s _engagement_ party.”

“So? I _need_ him here.”

Well, that was typical Tom. 

Somehow, and Harry was still trying to work out the mechanics of it, Tom managed to convince people that he was incredibly altruistic, that he barely ever wanted _anything_ for himself, whilst also asking, and, getting _everything_ , he wanted for himself. Thus far, Harry had managed to identify the tone and sometimes the little words, like the ones he’d used on him when they’d kissed.

 _Oh_ , this was this was not the time to be thinking of _that_. 

There was probably _not_ a _more_ inappropriate time to be thinking of how Tom’s mouth felt against his, how soft his lips were, how gentle, and that was when he was drugged out of his mind and had no idea what he was even doing. Harry hardly dared to imagine what it would be like kissing Tom when he _did_ know what he was doing. 

Merlin, it would be fucking good. 

Malfoy was talking again, using the same ‘I’m-giving-you-advice-so-you’d-better-listen’ tone as he’d used earlier. The one Tom didn’t seem to care for.  
“Then you can ask him to come here yourself, Tom, because I’m not calling him back from the other side of the world, just so you can get some.”

The air caught in his lungs. 

Harry swallowed. 

And it felt like someone was scraping sandpaper down his throat.

There suddenly felt like there was an absence of oxygen in the air like someone had come out of nowhere and for no reason at all just punched him in the stomach. It made the space around his heart hurt more, ache, as though it could feel an absence. And for no real reason at all. He’d always known, deep down, Tom and Lestrange had…

Had…

Been something, hadn’t he?

Even if… 

If…

He didn’t want to admit how much that hurt his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was alright.


	19. Chapter 19

Vaguely it registered that Malfoy was _still_ talking, though for some reason it felt further off, just a distant echoey voice, reverberating off the stone. Rather like they had all be transported underwater and the pressure dulled the voices to just sounds. Making mouths that moved, but whose words were incomprehensible. 

Like he was wrapped up in cotton wool.

Harry swallowed again and forced himself to keep listening, because – because – he might be wrong, mightn’t he?

“You can pout all you like. I’m _not_ calling him. Not when there is someone else available _here_ , that you could have a perfectly fulfilling… _whatever_ with; if you’d just chill out a little.”

For the third time in less than two minutes, Harry swallowed. Merlin, he was such a teenager that even his heart had quickened. For a faint hope was rising in his chest, fluttering up like a butterfly taking its first flight. Of course, Malfoy probably wasn’t talking about _him_ , after all, everyone would be willing to have a… _whatever_ with Tom, but still…

Maybe…

It might just…

Be him?

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that answer, Malfoy.” 

Crushed again. 

“It’s only because Lestrange looks a little like him,” said Malfoy and Harry could practically hear the smirk on his face as he said it. That knowingness. That arrogant superiority. Nor could Harry stop that slight thrill that ran over his skin. 

Almost a chill. 

It might just be _him_.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear _that_ either,” hissed Tom, his voice now dipping into a dangerous territory that even Harry recognised, despite never being on the receiving end. It was just such a marked change from Tom’s usual drawl; every word was clipped down to the bare minimum, flattened and spread until it became distinctly threatening. 

But also, distinctly _suggestive_. 

As though Tom was still deciding whether to kiss someone or stick a knife in their stomach. 

“That won't make it go away, Tom. The feeling is still going to eat into you until you acknowledge it, at the very – ”

“Do you want me to do something you won’t like, Malfoy, because if you don’t shut up, I swear to Salazar I will.”

Silence.

A very long, very pronounced silence. 

“Great choice, now could you please recognise the gravity of this situation because it is a disaster,” said Tom, the threat just melting away, leaving the words to be coated with an unmistakeable dusting of panic. 

Harry would almost say fear.

He could imagine Tom right now, looking like a complete mess. His hand running through his hair until it was less artful and considerably more chaotic. Harry could almost hear Tom’s fingers tapping on anything, just tapping in the way he did when he got nervous. He could almost see that carefully constructed façade that Tom _always_ wore just starting to crack, the sides already crumbling and revealing that, underneath, Tom was only human, whether he liked it or not. 

He would look so _good_ like that. 

For, as close to perfection as a mortal could be, was when they acknowledged that they were only mortal. 

_Oh Godric_ , that sounded dumb.

But, at least, he hadn’t said it to Tom’s face, his stupidly perfect face that may or may not fucking love him.

And he’d managed to get distracted.

Again. 

“Merlin, Tom,” said Malfoy, “You need to chill.”

Tom must have shot him that murderous glare because when Malfoy next spoke he was justifying himself a little too fervently.  
“First, this is _not_ a disaster, it’s perfectly normal. Second, you’re overreacting. Third, have you not seen yourself in the last few months? Because _you’ve_ been a complete disaster.”

“I have not,” Tom snapped back.

“You have too; a _real_ mess, and, it’s finally time to face the music, don’t you think? You’re in love, you have been for ages and it’s been interfering with your entire system, which means it's interfering with the rest of us, and I’d quite like to finish my seventh year without falling victim to your angst.”

Harry couldn’t help but suck in a breath. Tom and Malfoy might have been friends, but…

No one spoke to Tom like that.

 _And got away with it._

“I am _completely_ fine, Malfoy, and I have been all year.”

So, he wasn’t backing down on that one then. And that first tone was back, all the vulnerabilities pushed away into a box so that Tom’s usual confidence had the room to show itself. That _gorgeous_ confidence that could get him anything he wanted. 

“Yeah right, Tom, you’re _completely_ fine.”

Malfoy seemed to regret saying that as the next thing Harry heard was the sound of a heavy object hitting a softer surface, probably Malfoy himself. 

“Ow. Ow. That actually hurt, Tom.”

“It was supposed to!” he shouted. 

And there was the mood swing. 

Hardly a surprise. Though it did _not_ sound like a fun one to have to deal with. 

Harry was just leaning closer to the door, trying to work out from the sounds, exactly what it was that Tom must have thrown when there were quick footsteps. He panicked and sort of flung himself away from the door and into the absolutely bare and horribly well-lit corridor.

Malfoy came out of the room and, somehow, he managed to spot Harry in a matter of seconds. Probably because he hadn’t found anywhere to hide and was standing in the middle of the corridor, admiring the wall, like a fucking idiot.

Malfoy stared at him. 

“Eavesdropping, were you?”


	20. Chapter 20

Harry turned around, unsuccessfully feigning surprise. Malfoy was staring at him, not positively, nor negatively, just staring with that same irritating half-smile he always wore when he was mildly amused, not that Harry watched him excessively. It was just watching Tom meant watching his friends. 

“Prying?” Malfoy said again, cocking his head to the side a little in the same way that Tom did when he asked rhetorical questions. 

Harry swallowed.

“No. Not at all. I was just – umm – looking at this wall.”

Wow. 

_Wow._

That was the best fucking excuse his brain could come up with. _Staring at the wall_. It wasn’t good, to begin with, and then there was the fact that this wall was blankest fucking wall ever, there was absolutely nothing to look at, as Malfoy seemed to know, but not quite believe, for he flicked his eyes between the wall and Harry several times.

“It’s a nice wall,” Malfoy said eventually, before taking a step forward and looking at it with him. But for all Malfoy’s contrived interest he knew _exactly_ what he was doing; he knew how forcedly drawing out this conversation was going to make Harry look more and more ridiculous.

And he was going to revel in it.

Because that was what he did. 

But Harry was never one to back down. 

“It’s the first time – I’ve really noticed it,” he said, staring up at the most unremarkable wall in the history of fucking ever. “Though now, I rather it’s my favourite.”  
Malfoy was standing beside him, also staring up at the same wall, with the same level of enthusiasm, nodding along as though what he was saying was the most interesting thing ever. 

At least, if Tom saw them, he’d call them _both_ idiots. 

Not just Harry. 

They stood there, staring, in silence, at this stupid wall for a good five minutes before Harry closed his eyes and let out a long sigh because this was boring, to say the least, not to mention, embarrassing. 

“I’d have thought you would be more interested, given this is your _favourite_ wall,” said Malfoy, just to be perverse.

Harry snapped. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

“Just to tell you that you’re a horrible liar; your eyes give you away.”

“Well thanks,” Harry said as coldly as he could, as though if he tried hard enough, he might be able to freeze Malfoy and give himself some peace of mind for at least a couple of days. “Care to move along now?”

“Not really,” he said, not bothering to move an inch away, and if anything, leaned a fraction closer to Harry, just enough to start getting into his personal space.   
“I should really inform you…”   
Those stupid clipped words sounding too formal.  
“… that if you’re here to do that potions essay, I’d come back some other time; he’s not exactly in the mood.”

As if to emphasise the point there was a loud thud as another hard object hit the inside of the door. By now that perfect room must be looking a little less perfect, and Tom himself must have been looking a little less put together. After all, there were so many items you could throw without ruining your hair. 

But that was completely not something Harry was thinking about right now. 

However much he’d like to. 

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Hmm, he’s just having a sulk, mood swings and all, he’ll be fine later,” said Malfoy still watching the wall, simply because there was nothing else to look at in this corridor and he seemed to have an aversion to looking at Harry himself. 

Too beneath him probably. 

Well, that was fine, he didn’t have to look at Malfoy either. Instead, Harry focussed his attention on a spider as it walked across one of the stones in the wall; wandering slowly, almost apprehensively as it approached the mortar dividing those stones. Tom was a bit like a spider; meticulous, careful and irresponsible completely by accident. A spider didn’t realise that its actions would scare people, and Tom certainly didn’t realise his actions would have consequences. Even less, consequences that would be so…

All consuming. 

Harry sighed when it became obvious Malfoy would not be leaving at his own accord. That he clearly wanted to say something but wanted Harry to be the one to provoke it all, typical Malfoy really. 

He might as well get it over with. 

“I thought you were away for Easter,” he said because it was general and polite and had absolutely nothing to do with Tom. 

Malfoy looked down at his nails, picking at them every so delicately. “Oh, I _was_ away. But family events at our private villa in Italy can be ever so tiring.”

Harry rolled his eyes, because…

Because…

Because fuck Malfoy.

That was a good enough reason, wasn’t it?

“You’re back because of him, aren’t you?”

He was, Harry didn’t need Malfoy to confirm that, he just wanted to see what whether he’d admit it. But Malfoy only gave him one of those smiles designed to satisfy anyone, what was it about Slytherins and their ridiculously good smiles? It wasn’t fucking fair.   
“Mulciber may or may not have sent a letter, which might have mentioned the incident at breakfast. Really though, I can’t say I’m surprised, only a little disappointed, Harry. I thought you had more class than that?” he said in utter apathy as he shaped his nail. 

It was exactly the sort of comment that Tom would make. 

Bastards, the pair of them. 

“I don’t believe we’re on a first-name basis, Malfoy,” Harry said, with a tone he would have liked to believe was biting. The sort of tone that made words sting, made them lodge themselves into other people’s skin, hurting for days. 

But Malfoy smiled at him as you might smile at a puppy or a kitten that was being faintly amusing in its escapades, or even in the condescending way you might look upon a small lion cub trying to roar. He looked at him like Harry was the entertainment that had made the entire trip out here worthwhile.

“You know, you’re absolutely _adorable_ when you’re trying to be intimidating, Harry.”

Harry just glared.

Because no one had any right to call him adorable, but especially not Malfoy. He wouldn’t even like Tom to call him that. Well, actually, that was a lie, he would very much like Tom to call him adorable, but not in the way that made him feel at all inferior, unless…

_No._

He was absolutely not thinking about that, when Tom’s closest friend, if he even would call Malfoy his friend anymore, stood less than two feet away. 

Instead, he continued to glare. 

“Oh, there’s no need to look at me like that, Harry, I was only teasing, and, anyway, we have to learn to get along, don’t we?” Malfoy said with a smile that had secrets behind it, big secrets, as though he knew something _sensitive_ , important, something that would ultimately change their entire dynamic. 

Perhaps he did.

Or perhaps, as was more likely, he only _thought_ he did. 

For Malfoy was one of Tom’s more impulsive friends, less so than Lestrange, but he was at the very end of that scale, and significantly more though than Rosier. He rarely looked before he leapt, because, for him, consequences were some nasty little thing that other people had to deal with. 

“I’m so sorry, Malfoy, but I don’t see why we _have_ to get along.”

Could he sound any more like a petty teenager?

Malfoy looked surprised for a second, then his lips spread into a smirk. “Oh, there’s no reason,” he said way too casually and way too intentionally. There was a reason.

There was _definitely_ a reason. 

And Malfoy would not be sharing it. 

“Anyway, it was nice talking to you, but I should leave you to your wall, Harry,” he said, starting to walk away back towards the main school, those stupid shoes clicking on the stone in the most irritating way. He turned though before he was too far that his expressions would have blurred.   
“By the way, Tom won’t be around for the rest of the week, he’s coming back with me, you know, for a change of scene. I trust that you’ll do your absolute best to finish that charms essay that you were meant to do, won’t you?”

Fuck, he’d completely forgotten that fucking charms essay. 

And there wasn’t any real reason, but he could have hexed Malfoy then, just for the smugness with which he smiled, because he had something Harry wanted. Years of friendship, or whatever it was that Tom maintained with people he liked, had resulted in an ease of familiarity between them. And, perhaps, just perhaps, it _might_ have been jealousy that increased aching in Harry’s heart; the slight burning sensation that crept up from his stomach and traced his lungs. All at the simple thought of Malfoy, of all people, being able to see Tom whenever he wanted. Being able to lean over while he was reading and just touch his arm. 

He could steal a kiss whenever he wanted one.

More than one. 

Harry should say something witty, something clever, anything to bring Malfoy down a couple of pegs, teach him that despite his money and his family and his looks, he couldn’t have _everything_. 

“Fuck you,” said Harry, and it almost echoed down the corridor. 

It wasn’t _quite_ as dramatic and meaningful as he was aiming for, but it would have to do.

Malfoy just smirked. “Oh, it’s not me who wants to hear you say that.”

“What?”

“You’ll see, Harry. You’ll see,” he said, turning away and walking down the corridor. The tone he’d used still lingering in the air. Harry couldn’t put a name to it, but knew he absolutely loathed it, because…

Because…

Fuck Malfoy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't supposed to exist, and then it did; please forgive me, it doesn't feel quite right but I've been staring at it for so long now that I'm just going to post it anyway.

Harry would like to think he spent the next week in the height of productivity. Working on that essay, doing extra reading, assisting the younger students who were in need, and generally being an all-round helpful and beneficial member of the school community. 

That was what he’d like to think. 

But he was wrong. 

_Very wrong._

Harry _actually_ spent almost the entire holiday glaring at the blank parchment his charms essay was supposed to be written on, whilst sitting in bed in his underwear with a blanket and a box of chocolate. Not a wholly awful situation, but definitely not as productive as he had envisioned.

Really, he’d never been _less_ productive. 

So it was hardly a surprise that by now he knew every single corner of the dormitory by heart. He knew where the pattern of the fabric faded in the top left-hand corner of his bed, and he knew how the right corner legs of three of the beds had teeth marks in, from some small rodent, probably a mouse. Nor did he only notice these material things, but also those which were immaterial; like the angle of the sun when it hit the window. That sharp square of light started almost white in the morning, and Harry watching it throughout the day as it faded, the colours growing softer as the hours grew later. Until, finally, by sunset, that square had blurred at the edges and was staining the wall with orange. 

Sunsets could make anything prettier. 

Even his mess of living space. 

And it _was_ a mess. 

It was the late afternoon, but he was still sitting on the bed. Surrounded by strewn clothes and books and the occasional chocolate wrapper, in what Harry would refer to as controlled chaos, but was really, just chaos without the _slightest_ hint of control. If he wanted a comparison, it would have been the meticulous organisation of Tom’s room, the last time he’d been in there, or rather, the _only_ time Harry had _ever_ been in there. 

And there he was thinking about Tom _again_. 

Which was bad. 

Because to think about Tom was to indulge himself in a bad habit. 

More than that even, it was a torture, of sorts; a delicious suffering that felt like a wire cutting into his tongue, almost as though someone’s teeth were impressing themselves into the muscle. It was painful, physically, to think of Tom, but strangely intimate as well. For now, there were moments that they shared, which neither of them would ever experience with anyone else. 

Mostly because Harry doubted Tom would _ever_ be fucking stupid enough to take Amortentia again. 

He sighed. 

Merlin, he was being melodramatic.

It was just a crush. 

_Probably_. 

But should a crush leave his heart thrumming in the middle of the night? Should it allow a sickly, swallowing pain to envelop him, washing over and over him as though he was just a shell on the ocean’s current, completely at mercy to whatever it was that felt the need to grate against his insides, leaving the red and raw and somehow...

Empty. 

Like there was something missing from his heart. 

_Wow._

_Just wow._

Thank Godric his friends weren’t here, or he’d probably have been hit with a roll of parchment by now.

Maybe even a shoe. 

And told to snap out of it. 

But it wasn’t as though he _meant_ to think of Tom _all_ the time, he just couldn’t help it in moments like this. Moments that were so infused with Tom, without him needing to be in the room at all. And it hadn’t been intentional, quite the opposite. But when he thought of that stupid charms essay, he had to write on non-verbal magic, he’d had to look at Tom’s notes because that was their arrangement: Tom researched what they were going to write, and Harry wrote it. 

He had to stare at Tom’s stupidly fancy handwriting and his ridiculously long words. 

And remember how much he had smiled when he thought of them. 

How they’d both smiled. 

Because, although they argued, _a lot_ , it was always good-natured, or, it _had_ been until he'd decided to throw something at Tom, and though, Tom hadn't labelled them as friends, it hadn't felt like Tom had hated having him around. They'd laughed while preparing this essay, alone together in the library with the gold of the sun staining everything it touched, including Tom's smile, somehow managing to make it even more perfect. 

And as soon as Harry started to think about Tom’s stupid smile, he was smacked around the face with such a palpable memory that his cheek stung with it. That vivid image stuck in his head. Tom lying back on his bed, smiling at Harry like he meant the world, and at that moment, he probably _had_ meant _everything_ to Tom. That thought laid the path for another, and another, and another, until, suddenly, he was thinking of Tom’s lips against his. 

The taste of his mouth. 

The texture of his lips. 

The temperature of his tongue. 

Yet again he was remembering the simplicity of kissing Tom. That lovely moment when _nothing_ else in the world had mattered, when it had just been Tom’s mouth against his, and the very tips of his fingers touching Harry’s cheeks in a pseudo intimacy that Harry wanted to relive into eternity. 

He buried his head into the pillow.

Trying not to think.

Not to think of Tom in any way or shape or form. Not to think of his words or his manners of his actions. Just trying not to fucking think of the person that he was definitely a little bit in love with. Though, he could have thought about him forever, perhaps longer; the only thing stopping him was Malfoy’s words reverberating around his head like a fucking pinball machine. 

_It’s not me who wants to hear you say that._

_It’s not me who wants to hear you say that._

_It’s not me who wants to hear you say that._

Well, who the fuck did then?

Tom was the most obvious answer was that question. But Harry still couldn’t quite bring himself to _fully_ believe that, because, well, Tom was self-assured, he was confident and assertive. He could have anyone he fucking wanted to, no questions asked, and he’d already said he liked Harry, so…

So…

Why would he be awkward about it? 

Tom wouldn’t _hide_ from his feelings. 

He would embrace them, as a bird embracing its wings; perfectly natural and as calm as the waves when there is no wind. Though, if Harry was honest with himself, it would be… sweet, if Tom was less than confident. If he was…

Shy. 

If he was strangely vulnerable, caught out even, by the feeling that might just have been curling its way around his heart. There would be something lovely in knowing that not everything about Tom was so smooth and elegant and perfect.

It would be nice to know he was human. 

Then Harry might just have had a chance with him.

But that wasn’t how things were. The Tom in his head wasn’t the real one, no matter how much he wished that he was. Instead, Harry was going to have to crawl out of bed tomorrow and greet everyone as they returned back and be a mixture of excited and apprehensive for the new term. He groaned into the pillow because he was going to have to smile and pretend that everything was absolutely normal. 

Even when it _absolutely_ wasn’t.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so long, I couldn't find an appropriate place to split it up; I hope it's alright nonetheless.

The next time Harry saw that idiot who was certainly _not_ ruining his entire life, was Monday morning; and nothing good ever happened on a Monday morning, especially not when it was the first day back of the summer term.

And when it was so fucking hot. 

Apparently, the sun, which had stayed so suspiciously quiet for the entire Easter break had _now_ decided that it was the perfect time to come the fuck out.

And, of course, there was no air conditioning because that would be far too easy.

The result was the entire Great Hall filled to the brim with students that were already too hot when it wasn’t even nine ‘o’clock yet. 

It was going to be a _fun_ day. 

The only peace that Harry was afforded, aside once again being in the presence of his friends, was that Tom wasn’t at breakfast when they got there, probably because they got there early. Too early really, but Hermione preferred to be too early rather than too late, even after seven years of never ever being late. 

Though his peace was ruined when Tom came in less than ten minutes later. 

Harry tried to ignore him, to pretend that he barely noticed Tom as he graced the Hall with his presence. Instead of watching him, Harry dutifully stared at his toast and ground his teeth together, trying to ignore the itching that was under his skin to just _look_.

It was too much. 

Harry glanced up.

Just a glance.

_A tiny little glance_. 

Tom had stopped and was talking to someone already sitting down. He looked like he was back to normal, at least, superficially, there was still a tension in his shoulders that Harry couldn’t quite remember there being before, but, whatever it was, if indeed, it was anything at all, was buried too deep to just see on the surface. That, and it was difficult to see anything of Tom through the myriad of people, friends and otherwise, that surrounded him. All as pervasive and intrusive as borage or strawberries, so sweet to see, but so hard to get rid of. 

Not that Tom looked like he wanted to get rid of them.

The smile spread across his face suggested he was thoroughly enjoying his place at the centre of his friends, the crown jewel of their group, the diamond to their pebbles, and he looked absolutely looked the part, which was _un-fucking-fair_. In this heat, no one deserved to look good, least of all the person that _always_ looked together. 

How dare he look so _good_ when Harry himself most certainly did not. 

There should at least be some balance between them, currently, the only time he’d looked remotely better than Tom was when Tom was absolutely _not_ with it at all. 

Tom continued to walk past, not once acknowledging him, not even to glance and see if Harry was even there, his eyes stayed fixed on other people, even if he looked like he was only half-listening to what they were saying, rather like he was _distracted_. As though there were a weight pressing _hard_ on his mind. 

Harry swallowed; distraction looked better on Tom than even apathy. Apathy was a form of that irritating arrogance that was so unbearable, but distraction… _that_ was more interesting. 

Really, really, interesting. 

He snapped out of his fantasy world when someone put their teacup down too hard and the clunk of china on wood shattered every little thought into a hundred littler pieces. Tom still didn’t acknowledge him, and Harry toyed with the toast for a little longer, watching as subtly as he could, though he didn’t really _need_ to today, because everyone was watching Tom.

If Harry himself had been the one passing through, they’d have all been watching because they’d heard the rumours, the things that he’d done during the holiday, and they all wanted a look at the madman. But this was Tom. So, they weren’t looking because he was flawed, but because he was _flawless_. 

Due to the heat, robes were not compulsory today, and Tom had forgone his, as well as his jumper and was just walking past in just a shirt with its sleeves rolled up. And to make it worse, he _knew_ he looked good enough to eat. The smugness was in his smile, the awareness that was simply _irresistible_. 

It wasn’t a sight Harry was prepared to deal with before nine in the morning. 

Or ever actually. 

Because Tom with his sleeves rolled up was awfully close to Tom without his shirt on, and Harry wasn’t prepared to admit how much he’d like to see that sight again. When other people took their jumpers off there was nothing nice to be said; they looked stressed, uncouth, flailing around in their complete lack of control, but when Tom did it…

When Tom did it, it was so…

Cultivated. 

So careful and put together, as though deciding to look like that was something he’d obviously thought about in great length, and then executed with an annoying degree of perfection. When Tom was sitting down at his usual place, flourishing a smile for someone else, he looked outright delectable.

The sort of old-fashioned sweet that Harry would sincerely like to roll around his tongue, sucking it down to the soft sweet centre, before biting, and swallowing _whole_. 

He was blushing. 

Harry could feel it spreading like water across a tablecloth down his face and throat; a deep pink flush that warmed even the deepest layer of his skin. 

And all because Tom had the fucking _audacity_ to walk around looking like _that_ when they had unresolved… things. Issues. Matters. Affairs. It didn’t matter what he called them, they weren’t settled, they were buzzing, almost audibly between them. Harry could feel it in the stares that everyone gave the both of them, as though they were searching for the pieces of string that were meant to tie them together. 

But if Tom noticed the additional attention, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just sat looking perfect. So indescribably fucking perfect. Harry would have been tempted to say he was cut from glass, if glass had been able to form such angles and such lines, if glass was capable of writing impossible thoughts all over Tom’s face, then Tom was indeed made of glass. 

But glass could not do those things. 

Nothing could do that. 

The thing that made up Tom wasn’t of this world; it was magical in a way that it shouldn’t have been, beautiful in a way it had no _right_ to be

Fuck.

Just fuck. 

He was acting like some fucking lovesick teenager; when in reality he was…

He was…

_Oh fuck, that was exactly what he was._

And it was all Tom’s fucking fault, as usual, if _he_ hadn’t decided to mess around and do things that no wizard, whatever their calibre, should, then neither of them would be in this mess and it wouldn’t be so fucking awkward to just look at him. 

But Godric was it. 

They just needed to talk. That was what the rational part of Harry’s brain was telling him; the irrational part simply said he should stun him, hex him into next month and not stop until Tom was either dead or very near it. 

But Harry couldn’t currently do either. 

Not when Tom was surrounded by his usual sycophantic entourage. Though, interestingly, Malfoy had clearly been relegated once again, throw down those stairs of favour at some point and was now grovelling at the bottom; obvious to Harry by the simple fact he was no longer sitting by Tom’s side, but was instead, at least, four seats down. Farther away than he’d ever been before. 

Not that Harry could find it in himself to feel sympathetic.

If anything, it was quite amusing. 

Or, it was, until Harry saw who had replaced him. 

He wouldn’t lie, he hated everything about Malfoy, but at least he was upfront about his dishonesty. The person that currently sat by Tom’s side was Lestrange, and he did not have the decency, to be honest about anything. 

The thing about Lestrange that was obvious and so frankly obnoxious was his stickiness. It radiated from him, permeating into his every action, colouring the world around him because everything about Lestrange was sticky in one way or another. Harry watched from across the room as Lestrange’s eyes lingering so obviously on Tom’s mouth for far too long, and the way his hands resting unopposed on Tom’s arm. It was minute, and to anyone else completely inconsequential, but Harry couldn’t help but stare. 

Couldn’t help but see _something_. 

Something he rather wouldn’t see.

There was just a familiarity between the two of them that he couldn’t help but dislike. Actually, that was a lie, he didn’t _dislike_ it, he absolutely loathed it. Just watching Lestrange’s hand press into Tom’s shoulder, in a way that to anyone else would appear to be friendly, but to Harry, was so blatantly not.

_I want Lestrange._

Those were Tom’s words, now pressed into the inside of his head.

_I want Lestrange._

It made Harry’s insides turn, and twist, and almost burn like his tea had turned to acid in his stomach. And it was unpleasant, more so than the now permanent ache around his heart. This was like someone stabbing him with a fork from the table, just pushing it in and turning it all around. 

It didn’t take him long to realise what it was. 

Jealousy. 

But that was ridiculous because he absolutely was not jealous of Lestrange. Not at all. He couldn’t care less if Lestrange's hands were all over Tom. It wasn’t his business or his affair, and it did not concern him in the slightest. 

_So why did he fucking care so much?_

Because it was Tom. 

That was what the insidious little voice in his head repeated on a constant static loop. _Because it was Tom._ Because they’d shown all their cards to each other, and they each had a hand that complemented the other’s.

_Things had been said._

And Tom should have the decency to honour those _things_ to the end of their natural life, even if they were unpleasant for him to stomach. Even if his own stupidity made him averse to acknowledging that those memories even existed. 

And yes, maybe Harry cared because he liked Tom a little.

_Fine_.

_More_ than little.

A lot.

An awful fucking lot. 

That was why he cared. Why he cared way too much that Tom was letting someone _else_ touch him when he usually hated it. Why he cared that Tom had barely acknowledged him since this entire saga began, and in the one occasion that he had, Harry himself had gone and messed it up. 

So, maybe he was a little jealous. 

And maybe he wanted Tom to just _notice_ him, even if that was pathetic. 

Though, Tom was not being as _apathetic_ towards him, as Harry would have expected.

If anything, Tom was paying him _more_ attention. 

He was _deliberately_ avoiding Harry’s gaze. It should have been subtle, and maybe it would have been, if, Harry hadn’t been watching him so intently. But there was deliberation in the way that Tom avoided looking at the portion of the hall that Harry sat in; his eyes closing or just drifting to the floor every single time, like a prisoner on death row, watching everything and everyone, other than his executioner. 

At least that was how Harry would like to think of it. 

_That_ interpretation would give him some…

_Power._

And he rather liked the idea of having a little bit of power over Tom. It was something that no one else had ever managed to have before, and something, which he doubted anyone would be able to have again. So, he might as well make use of it. 

He kept watching Tom.

Harry watched as Tom poured his orange juice, whilst looking at the other’s highly caffeinated teas with a disdain that was palpable even across the room. 

Who knew that hypocrisy could be so tangible?

So intense. 

A deeply _physical_ feeling in the air, and one that Harry found himself having a worrying lack of concern for. This was hardly the first time he’d seen Tom’s two-facedness, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to feel the same… revulsion as he had before. All because Tom played it so well. To him, this was like the grand performance, the opening night of the opera, and if there was anything in the world that Harry knew for certain about Tom, it was that he loved a performance. 

Theatrics.

The opportunity to wear a mask and play someone else. 

Rather like taking Amortentia to say something that a version himself couldn’t say. 

And he did it so _well_.

That now, it could hardly be criticised at all. If anything, there was something _hypnotic_ in Tom’s ability to cover up the cracks that had so clearly cut through his concrete façade over the Easter break. In his week away from Harry, he’d clearly been practising his plastering, perfecting the way he smoothed over even the deepest divisions in his constitution, and now – 

“Harry?”

Fuck.

He looked up and nodded, not even entirely sure who had spoken, even less what they were talking about. But he didn’t _need_ to know, if it was important, they could tell him later, and if it wasn’t, they need not tell him at all. 

Harry blinked. 

Did his mind _really_ just suggest that?

That was more of what Tom would do, use people as stepping stones to his own desires, albeit, this was probably what he was doing when he was ten. He should say something else, apologise for his thoughts, but he didn’t even know who had said his name, and all the others at the table were already talking about something else. 

Harry swallowed and looked back across the room. 

Tom was watching him. 

And for a second, the whole world ceased to exist. The clamour and clatter of the great hall bristling with students all melted away, and it was just him and Tom; Tom and him watching each other from across a distance that seemed so much wider than any ocean. 

For a second there were great visions dancing through Harry’s head, romantic scenes of ridiculous proportions where they met in the middle of the hall and confessed undying love, and everything was perfect. It was all so vivid that Harry could practically taste it on the very edge of his tongue. But he couldn’t because there was nothing there to taste. 

Harry tried to blink away his embarrassing daydreams and stand up with the rest of his friends.

But still, he couldn’t help but look across the room.

Tom was leaving too, still smiling at other people, having a hundred different conversations whilst still looking like he was thinking of something else entirely. Perhaps he was, he certainly seemed a little preoccupied as he took a strange way, not to mention a rather long one, around the head of the Slytherin table. A route that would bring him much closer to Harry. 

Harry tried to bury that thought, Tom probably just wanted to talk to someone. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop him from awkwardly searching through his bag for nothing in particular.

Not his favourite bag though. 

That was still in Tom’s room.

This was a poor replacement; an old one he’d found at the bottom of a chest; it was just about holding together as long as no one knocked against him too hard. 

Someone took that precise opportunity to knock against him.

“Could you fucki– ”

He turned expecting to see some annoying little first year.

But it wasn’t a first year. It was Tom that had knocked into him and was now walking away like nothing had happened. Could he get any more fucking petty? Any more frankly ridiculous than to _deliberately_ go out of his way _just_ to knock into him. All because it would annoy him. 

“You know you’re a real fucking piece of – ”

Harry stopped.

Tom had turned back and was letting his eyes drop to Harry’s hand. Harry followed his gaze. In his palm he was holding a note he didn’t remember taking from anyone but must have done. He glanced up at Tom once more, but he’d already started walking away, joining the throng of people that were leaving. The crowd that Harry was almost certainly getting completely in the way of; but he didn’t care, he just stood there, before turning the notecard over and being faced with Tom’s fucking stupid scrawl. 

_We need to talk._


	23. Chapter 23

Could Tom actually get any more annoying? 

That was the thought that pressed heavily on Harry’s mind as he walked, more than a few, steps behind Tom to their first class. First, he’d wanted nothing to do with Harry, now, all of a sudden, he was acting like talking was all _his_ idea. Not that he’d actually arranged when or where or what they were even going to say to each other; those were just _details_ , unnecessary and frankly distasteful things that Tom didn’t feel any need to address. 

And it shouldn’t matter.

Harry had never been one to care for details, but Tom was. 

To be honest, Harry was a little surprised that it had been such a simple note, and not an entire invitation card to some formal breakfast meeting, where they would sit on opposite sides of the table like they were getting divorced; that was what he would expect from Tom. Not something, rushed and casual. Tom didn’t do _casual_ , he did artificial informality, the sort that anyone who cared to look could see right through. 

The sort that let him _pretend_ that he didn’t need to be in control of everything all of the time when, in reality, he did have that all-consuming need that probably bit at his insides every, single, night; chewing his organs up and spitting the mess back out.

And the apparent result was just as messy.

There was absolutely no way on earth that Tom could say that he dealt with uncertainty, especially uncertainty that had anything to do with emotions, _well_ , because he _didn’t_ , and if he ever tried to claim that he did, Harry was definitely hexing him into oblivion, at the very minimum. 

Was it even possible to hate the person you loved quite so much?

Because Harry was pretty sure he did. 

But he had to put whatever irritation and exasperation and frustration that he felt behind him because Tom was _finally_ willing to be the actual fucking adult that he was, and that was progress, even if it left a bitter flavour on Harry’s tongue, a mixture of ash and citrus that stung the very corners of his mouth. 

What made it worse was that he now had to sit through the worst class of the entire week.

Harry would like to think he no idea _why_ he’d taken History of Magic; he’d hated it. He still hated it, but, somehow, he’d ended up taking it once a week and just about passing. If he actually thought about it, which he preferred not to do, then it was _all_ Tom’s fault, as most things in his life appear to be. Tom had always intended to take History of Magic because, for some unknown reason, he actually found it interesting, and Harry had been one short of an elective and Tom close by was always a benefit and so…

So…

So…

He’d been a fucking idiot.

Not for the first time, Harry had paid too much attention to his heart and too little to his head, and _this_ was the awful result; sitting in a hot classroom at nine in the morning about to battle sleep for the next hour, whilst _maybe_ learning something. That was how it normally went, but today the whole tone was amplified: the classroom was hotter, the morning felt earlier, and the way the light filtered through the blinds was positively soporific.

And that was before he included Tom into the calculations. 

Not that Tom could be relied upon to stay as a constant for long enough to be included in a calculation. His sudden change of heart today was enough to exemplify that. Tom was about as predictable as knowing where a dandelion seed would land, and no matter how long Harry spent staring out the window during this stupid class, he _never_ guessed that right. 

And now he was stuck here, between his own regret, Tom’s fucking mood swings and a dull history lesson. If he was going to survive the next hour there was no way that Tom was going to get away with avoiding talking to him. 

So, he might as well start as soon as possible. 

“Tom,” Harry hissed across Malfoy, who was sitting between them, not exactly listening, and already looked like he was half-asleep. Somehow, Malfoy never paid attention in this class and still managed to ace it, which was almost as unfair as Tom ignoring him when he’d _specifically_ said they were going to talk. 

“I’m not talking to you during class,” Tom hissed back, not even bothering to turn to face him, only staring at the blackboard as if it were the most interesting thing he’d ever seen, and not a load of dates for events they were supposed to already know. 

Dates that Harry did not know. 

But Godric, did he hate History of Magic; it was just so utterly useless. 

“It’s History of Magic, no one cares,” he said, quietly, cursing Tom silently for making them be in the front row of every single stupid class they sat together in. He’d already been called out too many times to count by almost every teacher in this entire school for talking about something, most of them Tom’s fault. 

Tom only shot him a glare.   
“Well _I_ care; so, stop talking to me.”

Thinking about it, perhaps it wasn’t this class, perhaps it was just Tom that put him in the mood to hate absolutely everything and everyone right now, especially Tom himself. How could someone even swing from hot to cold so dramatically? Knowing Tom though, he probably did it deliberately, just to be as irritating as humanly possible.

Harry slumped down in his chair like a toddler and glared at everything and everyone, he knew it was childish, but anyone who spent this much time with Tom either had to have iron skin or complete apathy to the world if they ever wanted to enjoy themselves.

Between the hypnotic drone of professor Binns and the cloying heat of this fucking room, Harry found his gaze drifting, not to Tom, obviously; well, maybe a little, but mostly Malfoy, who was the only one who seemed to be enjoying this lesson at all. He was currently leaning back in his chair, much like everyone else, but unlike them, he still had his eyes half-open, and they were darting between him and Tom. Not to mention his much too wide smile splitting his face in two. Harry just rolled his eyes, because, _of course_ , Malfoy would be enjoying this, and instead, did his absolute best to ignore him. 

But Malfoys are seldom ignored.

“Things don’t look like they’re going too well for you, Harry,” he murmured leaning over with all the subtly in the world.

He could really punch Malfoy right now.

But _that_ probably wouldn’t go down too well with anyone, so, Harry contented himself with glaring as best he could, perhaps even for England, in the hope that maybe, just maybe, it would make Malfoy shut up. 

It didn’t. 

Malfoy only took the opportunity to smile more. That hidden secret so obvious on his face. Almost as though it were written there, but in a language, Harry had never studied and so could not read however much he tried. There was something deeply irritating about it though, deeply smug, and if they had been somewhere secluded and there was no one around to stop him, Harry definitely would have done something…

Not _good_ , to put it lightly. 

Apparently though, Malfoy didn’t enjoy the silence and he leaned over again.   
“I mean, he’s not _even_ talking to you, is he? And the hand on his shoulder, well that’s not yours, is it? Does that – ”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry hissed, not wanting at all to think about the way that Lestrange’s fingers were still digging into Tom’s skin, not quite possessively, but certainly getting pretty fucking close.  
“Things aren’t exactly going too well for _you_ either, are they?” he said, hoping his words actually contained the sting he wanted. 

And that sting held more than a prickle of the truth because, whether he liked it or not, Malfoy might have been sitting next to Tom, but they hadn’t said anything aside from the absolute necessities since they got in here. It was almost like Malfoy had been made invisible; just cast out of existence simply because Tom had no current need for him. 

Malfoy just shrugged regardless, somewhat apathetically, as though he didn’t really care if he was out of favour for a few days because Tom would come back to him in the end.

Tom would _always_ come back.

Malfoy was just too irritatingly _valuable_ not to.

To ignore him permanently would be to have a diamond ring and cast aside the diamond for the sake of worthless glass. Tom might not like him, but he wasn’t as hot-headed as Harry to simply fling him out because he didn’t like him _all_ the time. Tom was more careful than that. 

And Malfoy, he _knew_ that.

Which just made them _both_ fucking annoying.

More than annoying. 

But if Tom was going to be childish enough not talk to him, then Harry would have to do it through someone else, however _annoying_ that someone was.


	24. Chapter 24

“Malfoy,” Harry said as sweetly as possible, “could you please ask Riddle to not be so _childish?_ ”

He said it just loud enough that Tom would have been able to hear perfectly well anyway, and he must have done because he flinched ever so slightly. Though it was faint enough that the only people who noticed would have been Harry, and maybe Lestrange.

Malfoy certainly didn’t catch it, he was too busy watching Harry, watching and clearly trying to work out the angles of this game, and what his _exact_ place in it was; and whether he really wanted to be in on the opposite side to Tom. 

He barely deliberated. 

Apparently, Malfoy was Slytherin enough to play for someone else’s side when he thought the results might be _entertaining_. So he just let his snake-smile spread inhumanly wide, and he leaned over to Tom, speaking so low and so quiet that Harry couldn’t hear what he was saying, and could only hope he _was_ actually passing on that little message Tom had most certainly already heard. 

But whatever Malfoy said made him smile too much and Tom glare in that way that somehow mixed seductive with threatening, like he was deciding whether to kiss you or kill you and perhaps both at the same time. As though he was considering using his tongue in the same way as a kitchen knife, to press it into someone’s mouth at the exact moment he pressed stainless steel between their ribs. Harry doubted that many others could pull it off so flawlessly, but Tom could, Tom made it look effortless 

And that should probably scare him. 

It didn’t though. 

Nor did the stillness about him, as though he was taking time to consider his next move, rather like he did when he played chess, or any other strategy game that allowed his reactions to be a performance in themselves. The scales in his head were almost visible to the naked eye, swaying up and down as he figuratively weighed up his options.

Then, all of a sudden, Tom came to his conclusion. 

Harry could pinpoint the _exact_ moment that Tom chose whatever he was going to do, for there was a snap in him. A complete shift from tight to slack as whatever tension he’d been holding just trickled out and ran down his spine like raindrops. 

Very slowly Tom leaned down to his bag resting on the floor and pulled something out. Although Harry leaned, he couldn’t see what it was until Tom brought it up to the surface and laid it on the desk with half a smile on the corner of his mouth.

It was Harry’s fucking quill. 

This was, officially, the pettiest thing that Tom had done yet, the absolute pettiest because…

Why? 

Just why? 

He had absolutely no use whatsoever for his quill, other than to irritate him, and the thought that Tom would actually carry it around for the whole day, on the off chance that he could use it gain the upper hand was so unbelievably… Tom. 

“Malfoy,” Harry said, the sweetness now all gone, “could you please tell Riddle to _stop_ using my quill.”

Although Malfoy raised an eyebrow at that one, he didn’t question it, he only leaned over to Tom, and repeated it quite unnecessarily, though it was enough to execute a deal, but also show he was playing no part in it.

Tom did not look impressed. 

“Malfoy, could you please tell Potter that it is, in fact, my quill,” he said just loud enough for Harry to hear and probably anyone else who had been paying special attention to their conversation, which was no one given how sleep-inducing this dumb lesson was. 

Harry leaned across again.

“Malfoy, could you please tell Riddle that I know what my fucking quill looks like.”

Tom leaned back. 

“Malfoy, could you please tell Potter that he clearly doesn’t.”

Harry swallowed. He absolutely knew what his own fucking quill looked like, but right now, he had to prioritise, and there were more important things in the world that being proved right in that matter, especially as Tom would never, ever, let him win. 

He leaned over again, looking right at Tom, staring right where his eyes would be if he were to return the gesture.   
“Malfoy, now that we’re all talking, could you ask Tom when he wants to talk _properly?_ ”

“Tell him, later,” snapped Tom back too quickly, almost turning to face Harry but just catching himself before he did and, instead, forcing himself to start writing something useless in order _not_ to look at him. 

Harry couldn’t help but smile. 

Tom’s frustration was just a sign that he was getting under his skin. That as much as Tom tried to pretend that this was a completely normal scenario, it couldn’t have been farther from that truth. For once he was feeling as Harry did. That harsh grating somewhere between his skin and his bones, like creatures of the sea who make their nests just beneath the surface, was pushing him right to the edge.

And it would be nice to see what it looked like to push Tom off the reef, as it were. 

Though, apparently as obvious as it was to Harry, Tom’s irritation was not sensed by Malfoy, who merely leaned over and murmured, “later,” to him, like the faithful dog he always was.

Harry smiled. 

Perhaps he should stop there.

Perhaps he shouldn’t follow the path that he was, but Harry really couldn’t resist pushing that little, bit, further because _Tom always pushed_. He always, always took things that little too far, so, perhaps it was only right that he should finally understand what it felt like. 

“ _Malfoy,_ could you ask, when is later?” said Harry, stringing out all the syllables just as Tom did, forcing him to hear their grating sounds against his ear.

“Tell him, later today,” Tom hissed back, and Harry could hear the grit between his teeth, the nerves being rubbed raw, scratched down to their very root and stripped of everything that kept them together.

It was such a pretty sound. 

But Harry had never been one for patience, and whilst seeing Tom being slowly wound up like a children’s toy, was fun, it didn’t have the same appeal as merely jesting with him. Playing with words was Tom’s forte, and while it was entertaining to see him lose, where was the excitement, if he couldn’t, at least try to, worm his way out of it all?

That, and Tom’s answers were, and would always be, inadequate if he was given ample time to think about them, because Tom thrived in painful syrupy slowness, whilst Harry was far better equipped for a more… highspeed interaction. 

“When later?” Harry said, the words almost tingling on the tip of his tongue.

“Just _later_.”

“But when, Tom? I’ve already had to wait for fucking ever for you to decide you’re going to be a fucking adult,” Harry said, abandoning all pretences of using Malfoy as their conduit and just directly turning to Tom.

Tom also turned to look at him. 

And Malfoy took the, less than subtle, hint and leant back, making it more than obvious he did not want to be involved in whatever was about to happen. 

“You have not been waiting _forever_ ,” Tom snapped, “it has been a week; now could you just shut up for _one minute_.”

To Harry’s disappointment, it was a relatively controlled reaction, but that being said, there were definitely holes ripping open in Tom’s usual composure. This close, Harry could see how Tom’s eyes were the sort of smouldering that only appears in the blazing wrecks of serious car collisions, all dark and full, and still with the faintest swirl of red, like an Australian dust storm. Speaking of storms, there was one under Tom’s skin, and it must have itched.

But Harry still pushed.

It would have been outright _cowardly_ to drop out now. 

“Or what, Tom? Will I ruin your life because I’m a fucking brat?”

Harry honestly wasn’t sure why those precise words thought that that was their time to make an appearance, nor was he sure that Tom would even get the reference; it had been nearly two weeks, and who remembers what they said after _that_ long?

Well, Tom, apparently.

For his face dropped, merely a micro-expression, but one that _so_ obvious if you were watching him closely enough, and Harry sure was. He’d been caught off-guard, and _that_ didn’t happen very often.

And Tom _certainly_ didn’t like it when it did. 

He leaned over, making Malfoy actually push his chair back to get out the way. His hand resting flat on the desk. 

Did he _have_ to do that?

Harry had been barely over the indecent way that Tom was dressed this morning, and _now_ he had to deal with his fucking hands just pressing into the wood of the desk, his fingers resting in a slight groove. 

And it was fucking unfair. 

Because Harry had never had a thing for hands.

But he could feel one rapidly developing as awfully gorgeous thoughts began to rattle around his skull. How good they’d look pressed against Harry’s own chest, or on his waist, or even how _good_ they’d feel around his throat. Just Tom’s fingers digging into his skin, the hint of nails pushing into his veins.

Fuck.

To make it worse, Tom was still watching him, a hint of curiosity visible behind the irritation, but he did not seem to dwell on it, he only gave his usual glare coated in so much sugar, it was almost a smile.   
“Whatever you think you’re doing, Harry, don’t,” Tom said, just loud enough that Harry could hear without anyone else, other than maybe Malfoy, listening in. 

There was no denying it was definitely a warning, albeit a daring one, as though Tom was challenging him to just say something stupid, something self-incriminating. For him to take this… whatever, just that little bit further, pull it out of the shallows and into the deep waters that Tom felt more at home in. 

He wouldn’t take the bait. 

He would _not_ take the bait. 

He took the bait. 

“Tom, I am not doing fuc– ”

“Mr Potter, stop talking.”

Fuck. 

Harry looked up, Binns was looking at him, or rather frowning, like this was all _his_ fault. Even when it fucking wasn’t, and didn’t _even_ matter because given that half this fucking class was already asleep, and the rest didn’t care enough to even look up when something vaguely interesting was happening. 

Could this day get any worse?

Yes. Yes, it could because he was Harry Potter and his life was built upon nightmare after nightmare. 

And this particular nightmare was taking the form of the Tom fucking Riddle, who was currently smiling like a cat who not only got the cream but got the entire dairy aisle of a supermarket 

_Fucking prick._


	25. Chapter 25

Harry followed Tom after class. He’d like to think it was because he could do whatever he liked and didn’t need Tom to like it, but, really, it was because they had a study period next. 

_Together._

They always had it Monday second period. 

Always in the Great Hall. 

Usually, Harry enjoyed it, well, enjoyed it in the same love-hate kind of way that he enjoyed doing everything with Tom. On one hand, there was the advantage of having Tom all to himself, but, on the other, there was barely a week that went by where they didn’t at least have one ‘debate’ that others would insist was an argument.

Argument was really the wrong word though. 

They didn’t argue, as such.

They disagreed because he said Tom was too fastidious, and Tom said he was too placid. Really, they were perfect for each other; Tom made him pay attention to the little things he never saw, and he made Tom relax for once in his life, even if Tom’s idea of relaxing was sitting and disagreeing with him for hours on end.

But today, Tom wasn’t even acknowledging him, much less disagreeing, because, apparently, he had once again reverted to mentality of a five-year-old. Just marching over to his usual seat at the end of the table, where the light still caught the corner.

Harry sat opposite, the sun on the back of his head. 

Despite the fact Tom certainly knew he was sitting there, his shadow spread across the table should have been evidence enough, he ignored him and just started getting frankly too many books out of his bag; he opened one of them almost randomly and started reading it. 

The audacity of it was ridiculous. 

And Harry was just left to watch as Tom’s eyes flicked through the lines entirely too fast to actually be reading it properly, much less taking anything in.

Harry sighed, loudly. 

Silence. 

“Tom.”

Silence. 

“Tom, you said we needed to talk.”

Silence. 

“You can’t ignore me,” he said, trying to overlook just how quickly Tom could get to him. All he had to do was not pay attention to him, and all the irritation Harry had thought he’d let go of on the walk over here came back again in full swing; knocking the air right out of his lungs, almost like Tom had just walked in here smacked him in the chest with a cricket bat and walked out again.

He’d probably thought about doing that.

Probably, more than once. 

But if that was what Tom was thinking about now, Harry couldn’t have guessed. He could never fucking guess what Tom was thinking. Somehow, Tom managed to keep that part of his brain so firmly locked up, that, even if, Harry had been even _remotely_ good at legilimency, he wouldn’t actually have been able to find out anything. 

It was very annoying. 

And just rude frankly. 

No one deserved to be _that_ in control of their life.

Tom still hadn’t looked up, not once, but he must have been listening because he still hadn’t turned a page, and his eyes had been hovering over the same last words for a while now. 

That was when the idea came. 

And it was a stupid idea.

But those are usually the best. 

Harry suddenly leaned forward and grabbed the book out of Tom’s hands, pulling it back across the table and holding onto it tightly. For once he was grateful for the leather binding, which was considerably easier to hold onto than the paperbacks that Tom sometimes read.

Though, that sort of suggested he regularly nicked books from Tom’s hands.

But Harry wouldn’t have called it a regular occurrence, only an occasional one. 

Tom still hadn’t learnt to appreciate it. “Give it back,” he snapped. 

“No. You said we were going to talk,” Harry said; he knew he was smiling a little, even though he probably shouldn’t, because Tom couldn’t hold out against an irritant forever. 

_And he was planning ion being very irritating._

“So?” said Tom with only a hint of the grit he’d had in the classroom. The walk here had apparently calmed his nerves a little, enabled the layers that Harry had forced back, to regrow; to spread in the form of a temporary composure. It was a pretty mask held together with superglue and tape, neither of which was going to last very long if Harry had anything to do with it. 

“As you well know, Harry, I did not mean here, and I did not mean now; we’re busy.”

“When then?”

“Later,” said Tom, trying to drag the book back, but Harry held onto it. 

“You already said that.”

“Perhaps there was a reason,” Tom shot back, suddenly giving up on getting that particular book back, and simply getting out another one. 

“You sound like you don’t actually want to talk,” said Harry, watching Tom’s fingers as he considered whether it was worth nicking _that_ book as well, or whether Tom was just going to continue getting books out of his bag with those perfect hands, until they were sitting in a fucking library.

Harry wouldn’t put it past him.

There was the tangent again. Him, wasting time staring at Tom’s fingers. All they were doing was turning the pages as calmly and carelessly as possible, but the casual act was working. Tom’s fingers had an uncharacteristic shake to them, barely perceptible, except for when he turned the page. Harry wasn’t prepared to admit _just_ how _good_ those hands, shaking or otherwise, would look tracing his collarbone, following the lines up his neck, curling right around his throat like a snake. 

He would trust Tom with his life.

Even though he’d almost certainly regret it. 

But Tom must have noticed him watching him because he abruptly stopped turning the page, his jaw clenched in such a way that Harry could practically hear his teeth grinding. Two surfaces of enamel grating together, surely shaving the sides, probably turning them into the sharpest points possible; razor edges that Harry would cut his tongue on.

“Why do you have to be so – difficult? said Tom, snapping Harry out of his fantasy _again_ , and this time, a tad more abruptly than he would have liked. 

But the sight was definitely worth it. Tom was glaring at him, his fingers tapping hard against the back of his book; just tapping and tapping and tapping, doing anything with his hands that stopped them being still. It was like watching fuse attached to a timer, counting down the seconds before something short, sharp and violent happened. 

Harry scoffed.

Because _he_ wasn’t the one being fucking difficult. 

Still, Tom tapped those pretty fingers as though he could tap a hole right through the table.

But he couldn’t stop Harry, certainly not in crowded study hall.

“I think you’ll find, Tom, that I’m _not_ the _difficult_ one; after all, it was _you_ that said – ”

“Oh, just shut up, Harry!” Tom snapped; slamming the book down onto the table. A few people looked over, but Tom ignored them.   
“We’ll talk as soon as we’ve done the bare minimum of studying, alright? Now, just let me look at that charms essay, _please_.”

Oh.

_Oh dear._

Harry bit his lip, but not in the cool, sensual sort of way, more clamped down on the entire of his bottom lip because he knew there was something, he had forgotten this morning. And for the first time that morning he wasn’t thinking about Tom, but rather, that something he’d forgotten, that stupid little something being the lovely long charms essay that absolutely wasn’t sitting in his bedside drawer half scrunched up because he got irritated with staring at Tom’s handwriting.

Tom must have guessed his rough response because his face had fallen. In the space of three seconds, Harry saw despair, irritation and a vague, _vague_ , sense of hope. 

“You have done it?”

Harry let his tongue play over his mouth, running over the ridges he’d never thought about before while he watched Tom’s face crumple a little at the edges. Really, though it was _all_ his fault, so he could hardly accuse Harry of negligence. 

“Have you?”

“Umm… No?”

“Excuse me?” 

The tone was back in Tom’s voice again, that softness you’d almost mistake for understanding with a hint of forgiveness, at best, and pleasantries, at worst. But it was neither. That was obvious from the set of the rest of features, the flinty expression, so cold and hard that it was almost like staring at a pebble beach with the chill of the tide rolling in. Tom was not impressed. And Harry felt a coldness curl down his spine just by looking at him. 

“I’ve just got to… finish it?”

That was a lie he’d only written half.

The easy half at that. 

The excuse did not mellow Tom’s expression, only darken it until it was like looking into a cumulonimbus cloud whilst standing in an open field, knowing you were about to get absolutely soaked and quite possibly electrocuted.  
“You are aware, Harry, that it’s due this afternoon, and that it is the final ten percent of our grade, right?”

Harry nodded because he hadn’t forgotten that, not at all. He regularly thought about their grade, well his grade as he did the writing that actually got them those marks. 

“And I’m going to get it done,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound entirely convinced, which was fair enough because…

He was not at all convinced that it was going to be done even remotely in time. 

Nor was Tom, if his expression was anything to go by. In the past when Harry had forgotten essays, which wasn’t as common as Tom would claim, he’d seen a similar look painted across Tom’s face. For, as much as Tom might like to believe otherwise, he was quite easy to read. It was as though there was only space for one emotion at a time, and as a result, they were stuttering, haphazard things that slashed themselves across his face as obvious as a scar. 

Right now, for instance, he looked murderous. 

Which probably wasn’t a good thing. 

“How exactly do you plan to ‘get it done’ when you’ve already wasted so much time arguing,” he said, his voice dipping itself into dangerous depth. “And, whilst we’re on the subject, what could possibly have been so _distracting_ over the entire break for you not to have written _one_ essay?”

Tom’s tone had completed its metamorphosis, and now it was dark, full, the rougher edges of frustration smoothed and now stretched out like marble. There was a warmth and warning behinds his words, as though they held a spark, and all Harry had to do, was light them and step back to admire the view. 

And Tom wanted him to, he could hear buzzing under his skin, just as it had earlier. Tom wanted him to make a mistake; he was counting on it. Somehow, it gave Harry the distinct impression that if they had been standing, he would have been backed into a corner by now, like a mouse or an injured bird that was being slowly stalked by a cat. Anyone else would have gone in for the kill by now, but not Tom, he was going to take the time to play with his food. 

If Tom wanted to play with him, then Harry would play his little game. 

“Technically, I had to write four essays actually,” he said, raising his chin a little in what he’d like to have believed was a display of power, a defiance to do what Tom wanted, because whilst he might have liked him, he was not about to lose the ground he’d been cultivating for the entire year just to make his heart stop flipping over and over.

Tom just rolled his eyes.

“That doesn’t answer the question, and you know it. You had an entire week. That’s a hundred and sixty-eight hours, what were you doing?”

_Okay_ , they were doing maths now. 

Fucking maths. 

How could anyone even do sums like that in their head? He probably couldn’t even do it with paper and a good five minutes, let alone just… like that. Had it been any other situation, he _might_ have been a little impressed.

But this wasn’t ‘any other situation’.

And the longer he stayed silent, the more obvious it would become that he didn’t have the faintest idea what just happened, and that wasn’t how this whole game was supposed to go. So, he’d just have to take a fucking guess at the vague maths that swarmed around his head like angry wasps threating to sting. 

“I’m not working for twenty-four hours a day,” Harry said, hoping for his fucking life that seven multiplied by twenty-four was the sum that Tom had done. 

Tom’s glared deepened to the dark depths of his tone. 

“Fine. Subtract ten hours from each day and you still had ninety-eight hours in the week, divide that by four and you had over twenty-four hours to write each one of your essays. So, what could you have _possibly_ been doing that could waste _that_ much time?”

“Nothing.”

It was fucking useless excuse, even Harry knew that but he wasn’t about to admit just how _much_ time he’d clearly spent moping over Tom, not to his face, or anyone’s face. Harry doubted he could ever bear to even admit it in the mirror. 

Because it was fucking embarrassing. 

And what made it worse was that Tom still wasn’t letting it go. 

He had clearly latched himself onto the last thing he felt he could actually have the upper hand at, and now, like a cat with a rabbit in its mouth, he wasn’t prepared to release it.  
“It’s not, nothing though, Harry, is it? Or is it? Did you actually manage to waste that much time doing _absolutely_ nothing of value?”

“I was distracted alright,” Harry said, and he could hear that strain of emotion that always came out when he argued with Tom. The annoying emotions that Tom always smiled condescendingly at because _he_ was not burdened with such problems. 

Except he was. 

Whether he’d admit it or not. 

“Nothing is _that_ distracting,” said Tom, his fingers starting their tapping again, now on the table and louder than before. How the noise wasn’t pushing everyone else’s sanity to the very edge was entirely a mystery because it was certainly pushing Harry right off the edge.

Which was probably why he was reckless. 

Why said something so…

_Obvious._

“You are.”

Tom stopped tapping. In fact, his hands just stopped half-way in the air, like a wind-up toy suddenly running out of energy.  
“What?” he said, his tone faltering just for a second too long and the faintest flush creeping into the corners of his face. 

Well, Harry had come this far.

It would be a shame to waste the opportunity to see Tom break into a hundred million little bits. 

_“You’re that distracting, Tom,”_ Harry hissed back through gritted teeth. 

“Well, it’s hardly _my_ fault if _you’re_ distracted,” said Tom, recovering enough of the bite in his tone to make Harry almost think twice before speaking. 

_Almost._

“Actually, I think you’ll find it is; you’ve managed to make my life a fucking misery for the last two weeks.”

Tom stared at him in almost disbelief. 

“I haven’t even been here for the last week,” he said, the words all coming out too fast as though Tom’s brain couldn’t think fast enough to produce a better argument, and he’d been reduced to merely negating Harry’s statements. 

He was definitely getting to him. 

So what was a little more pushing going to do?

“Believe me, Tom, you don’t have to _be_ here to be a nightmare.”

Perhaps that wasn’t a nice thing to say, but Tom never brought out the niceness in him. He brought out the slyness, the slipperiness, the traits that Harry had never been sure that he liked, well, until Tom showed how pretty they could be when executed with the exactitude that he did. 

“I am not a nightmare,” Tom hissed, though the flush was spreading, curling itself around his cheekbones and down his neck. It was an adorable blush, as pink as candyfloss, and only made worse by the brightness of the sun straining down on it. 

“Yes, Tom, you are.”

“No, I’m not,” he insisted.

But he sounded even less certain than before. 

People were starting to stare. Harry could feel their eyes like needles pressing into his neck, sewing their own theories of what was going on right into his skin. He wondered if Tom could feel it too, that sharp, hot press of other people’s speculations. It wasn’t hard to guess what such speculations might be either. 

Harry had heard. 

They all thought he was into Tom. 

_Really_ into him, which might have been true, but still, he didn’t need them talking about it. 

They also said that Tom was just trying to be polite because Tom was such a lovely young man. He would never cause someone so much misery. He would never be such an _inconvenience._ Occasionally, Harry would catch a whisper of their words. A hint, a suggestion of how _weird_ he’d been acting recently.

What it all meant. 

What Tom was going to do about it. 

And Tom was going to do _something_. 

That much was obvious by now. The whole way he carried himself was stained with frustration and impatience and…

And…

Something else. 

It was as though Tom had passed through frustration and was now exploring entirely new territory. Whatever wires had been holding him together must have worn right down to their last threads, scratched to the bare copper or iron or steel, or whatever it was that was twisted up inside Tom’s bones. The result was practically electric. Every little nerve ending in Tom’s body was exposed, and he was rubbed raw with the feeling of being chafed, down and down into his skin.

Harry would have said he was vulnerable if it hadn’t been for that something else. 

That thing was just too predatory to call Tom vulnerable. It was swirled in his eyes and stretched itself out all across his face, infusing into even the smallest of expressions, until it was screaming so loud that Harry simply couldn’t ignore it. 

Simply couldn’t ignore that way it made his stomach curl up, coil as a snake does, round and round and round itself, squeezing so much tighter than it should, and making all the words stick in his throat. Just infinitesimal little words that meant nothing, clogging his trachea, whilst something entirely indescribable swelled up painfully inside him, threatening to break apart at any moment. Split open and just spill everywhere. 

Tom had frankly no right to look so good at that moment. 

So…

So…

Urgh. 

There were really no words to describe the look on Tom’s face, just that it made everything inside Harry twist itself into a knot. If he had been braver, Harry would have leant across the table effortlessly pulled Tom by his tie and kissed his mouth until it was numb. 

Just bite at him.

And chew at him.

And swallow him. 

Tom only continued to watch him, his eyes catching the light, and his expression, not mellowing as Harry hoped it might, but rather hardening like compressed kimberlite as it formed a diamond.  
“The real question, Harry,” Tom said, slowly and far more deliberately, words just dribbling off his tongue, “is _why_ are you thinking about me that much?”

That did it.

That snapped what was left of Harry’s concern for other people’s opinions. How could someone be so _fucking_ dumb? Even if, by the farthest stretch of the imagination, a million lightyears into the distance, Tom remembered absolutely _nothing_ of their experience.

He _must_ realise. 

“Because I want to fucking kiss you, you idiot!” Harry said, or rather half-yelled across the table. 

Tom stared.

Harry stared.

The entire fucking hall stared. 

And the silence was screaming out, that horrid ringing in his ears as Harry realised absolutely _everyone_ had heard, and now they were _all_ watching, _all_ waiting because he just admitted that he wanted to fucking kiss Tom Riddle.

Tom stood up. “Outside, now,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too sure I like this, but you have all waited long enough, so I hope it was vaguely alright.


	26. Chapter 26

They had scarcely left the Hall when Tom pushed him against the first available wall, or rather into the first physical corner that Harry had been verbally creeping towards for the last two hours.

“What was that for?” Harry protested, despite, in all likelihood, knowing _exactly_ what it was for. People didn’t just get to wind up Tom for that long without a little consequence or two; he’d just hoped that _his_ consequences would be a little more enjoyable.

That Tom would _finally_ take the fucking hint and just kiss him already. 

But all Tom was doing, was standing too close and glaring.  
“Don’t call me an idiot,” he said, somehow positioning himself perfectly that Harry couldn’t have easily extracted himself, even if he’d wanted to. It made him wonder just how many times Tom had backed someone into a corner.

Nor would Harry deny, it was intimidating and, it would have been more so, if, he hadn’t been so focussed on the way that Tom’s mouth moved, or more specifically, wondering what it would _taste_ like. What his lip would actually feel like if Harry could get it between his teeth; if he could bite down and hear exactly what sound Tom would make at that.

In his fantasy it was _obscene_. 

And gorgeous.

And – 

Tom was staring at him. 

Waiting. 

“Did you hear what I just said?” he said in that same quiet, threatening way that hit every nerve under Harry’s skin and just _sliced_ through them, as you might slice through a vegetable. But that summed them up just so, didn’t it? He was the vegetable, raw from the garden, and Tom was that stainless steel that cut through almost anything, and made it seem so unbearably…

Sexy. 

Even when it wasn’t. 

In that moment, Harry became aware that he was breathing too heavily, and that there was a riveting anticipation running beneath his skin, making all the hair on his arms stand on end and prickle like brambles were being pulled across it. 

“Umm…Yes,” he said eventually, not entirely sure what he was answering anymore, as his brain still a good minute behind the rest of him, still getting so easily side-tracked by the simplest things that Tom did. How close he was, for instance, too close by any standards. 

Close enough to fuel rumours.

Just oxygen to the fire. 

“Why shouldn’t I call you things that are true?” Harry said, his chin raised up again in a way that made Tom almost smile. He could see it, quivering at the corner of his mouth, threatening to ruin his carefully constructed persona; to spill over the edges and spoil that composure once and for all. 

“Because it isn’t true,” Tom hissed, always one to focus on the least important parts of any given statement. Harry had too many examples to count of the times Tom had focussed on the unnecessary details, instead of, you know, actually working the big picture out for once. 

So he just scoffed. 

“I’m sorry Tom, but you _are_ an idiot if you can’t see what’s right in front of your fucking face.”

Tom didn’t give Harry the reaction he wanted, not that he was entirely sure what that reaction even was; in fact, he didn’t give him _any_ meaningful reaction, unless licking his bottom lip, in a way that could have been put on a menu and served to paying customers. it was so fucking delicious, counted. 

“Take it back, Harry,” he murmured letting Harry just catch glimpses of his tongues as it curled around the words. 

“No.”

“Take it back,” Tom repeated, the words absolutely _dripping_ off of his tongue. 

“Make me.” 

Harry almost regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. This was exactly the ideal position to be in to challenge someone, but he and his big fucking mouth had done it now. He’d set Tom a challenge, and Tom never backed down from a challenge. But Harry didn’t entirely regret it because it sounded so powerful as it left his mouth, so commanding.

Authoritative. 

But somehow petty.

Like throwing everything that Tom was, straight back into his face, much to his dislike. And the fact that Tom disliked it was _painfully_ obvious. It leaked into every _inch_ of him, from the darkness of his eyes to the way that he clenched his hands, the knuckles cracking with every curl of his palm. There was something brilliant fizzing under his skin, and every time that Harry made himself irritating, he got a little bit closer to letting it out. 

Unless he already had. 

For there was a slight shift in Tom.

The raggedness of being stretched too far had dissipated, and in its place had swelled a confidence, so quick, Harry had scarcely even noticed, let alone had a chance to prevent it.

He didn’t like Tom confident. 

Well, he did because it was gorgeous, but it was also…

Also…

_Unnerving._

“Are you sure you want me to _‘make you’_ , Harry?” Tom said, his mouth so impossibly close that Harry could taste the heat of his tongue. And it was such a pretty tongue, enough to make him question whether he wanted it to keep talking to him, until the walls all melted and he was left floating in the void with nothing but Tom’s words to hold on to, or, whether he wanted it on him; sucking shapes into his skin and swallowing him down.

“Because, I get the _distinct_ impression you wouldn’t enjoy it,” Tom continued with a saccharine smile that Harry could feel his teeth rotting as Tom spoke; spinning those tempting webs that Harry always said he wouldn’t rise to, and always did anyway. 

“Wouldn’t enjoy what?” he said, a little more cautiously than before, unsure because, up until now, their conversation had seemed entirely predictable; himself goading because he could, and Tom being stubborn because that was his only emotional response, but, of course, Tom wouldn’t allow himself to be _predictable_ for any length of time. 

Because that would be too _easy_. 

Instead, Tom leaned forward and smiled the sort of smile that made Harry’s stomach twist and rip, like it was being squeezed by a string of barbed wire.

“Well, Harry, unless you don’t take that insult back, I won’t kiss you, not today, not ever; and don’t pretend you don’t want me to, you just told the entire Hall that you did,” said Tom, his fingers having the audacity to smooth circles in the stone that was just inside his periphery, just smoothing circles that could have easily been in his hair, or on his jaw, or his throat, or the place where his shoulder and his neck intersected.

Harry swallowed. 

The entire fucking world felt like it was spinning around him; a whirl of colours and shapes and sounds, none of which he could make out, and the only constant at all in this horrific, spinning world, was Tom and his fucking mouth so tantalisingly close. 

It would be so _easy_ to just kiss him now and get everything he’d wanted for quite a while. 

But Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that that was a _very_ bad idea.

With Tom, things were never gifts, they were favours that you were expected to repay, probably with interest knowing Tom, and, if there was anything that Harry knew for certain, it was that he was _not_ going to be in Tom’s debt.

Not today. 

Not ever. 

Perhaps Tom saw the micromovements of his jaw, of his chin, raising up in defiance, because he smiled again.

“Oh, come on, Harry, don't be like that; I thought you wanted to fucking kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm awfully sorry that this is so short, and that it ends so abruptly; I wanted to get something out, even if, the circumstances of writing it were a little less than ideal. 
> 
> Also, in the next few days, I'll be replying to many of your kind comments as I think I've finally gotten over my fear of written communication (sorry it's taken so long).


	27. Chapter 27

It sounded obscene coming from Tom’s mouth. 

Indecent.

And sickeningly _good_ to hear him spit out Harry’s own words. 

“You know, you should watch your fucking language, Tom, you’re _supposed_ to be the one setting an example,” Harry said, his voice barely above a whisper and coloured with an ill-disguised smile that must have been so _irritating_ to see. Once upon a time, Harry might have called that tone one of smug spite, knowing that he’d caught Tom’s personality slipping to the left; caught him out at his own fucking game.

But, however, much he wanted it, there wasn’t any spite in his words now. 

Not that he intended malice, though he half-expected Tom to take some anyway. Harry anticipated that the warmth would drain from Tom’s eyes and turn into a scalding cold that burned right down into his soul, and that he’d say something just as callous and they’d be back to square one. But Tom didn’t say anything cruel, he didn’t say anything at all. Clearly, he had _not_ been expecting that sort of answer, and now he was at such a loss that there was no foothold for callousness, if there was room for _anything_ , it was only more heat pooling in every hollow of Tom’s face.

It had been too hot before.

And, now, it was bordering on _unbearable_. 

He was standing here, stuck between stone warmed by the sun, and Tom, who was as close to a sun as any human was ever going to get, and the way that Tom was looking at him, it was just…

Just…

Fucking perfect. 

It started as something blistering behind Tom’s eyes, something uncomfortable scratching around his insides; a raw ball of emotions Tom had never bothered to unpick sitting, hot, heavy, and melded together in the bottom of his stomach. 

Tom had obviously been ignoring the inevitable. 

Avoiding it even. 

Deliberately sidestepping any attempt that his brain made to fix it until he couldn’t hide from it anymore. Until it had swelled, seeped into every, single, little, crack inside of him and expanded, and now it grated on the inside of his skin. Harry would almost say Tom was scared of this thing inside him. 

But that was probably because Tom had the emotional intelligence of a fucking goldfish. 

Probably even less.

Nevertheless, there was a tenseness about him, a jitteriness, it was in the micromovements of his pupils like he was trying to look at all, and none, of Harry at once. As though it hurt to swallow but he couldn’t resist drinking anyway; swallowing his image languidly like it was a body shot. 

_Fuck._

No. 

Nope. 

That was the absolute _worst_ analogy his brain had ever come up with because…

Because…

Urgh. 

It took all of Harry’s willpower not to actually _groan_ at the thought of doing _that_ to Tom; he’d never even taken a shot before, but he was ready to give it a go just to have Tom look at him like this again. Or even…

_Even…_

The other way around. Tom on his knees, his hands in places Harry didn’t want to think about, and the very tip of his tongue working into the contours of his skin. If he hadn’t been flushing before, he certainly was now because it was only Monday and he was _not_ fucking ready to face the mortifying realisation that Tom licking salt off his sternum was definitely something that was now on his bucket list.

At that moment he would have gladly let the floor swallow him.

And keep swallowing him. 

If it was an option, he’d live in the floor; only leaving once a year.

Or, perhaps he could just die of embarrassment and become a ghost. 

But as much as he willed it, his prayers went unanswered and he remained firmly alive and, on the floor, not to mention firmly between Tom and the wall; Tom being the considerably more lifeless of the two. The only perceptible movement about him was the way that was biting his tongue, slowly chewing on it; his teeth digging into one spot over and over again. If there were words that Tom wanted to say, they were stuck in his throat, clogging his airway until he was scarcely breathing, much less saying anything.

There was something crawling around under his skin, pulling him in opposite directions. Harry could see it in the way Tom paused, hesitated just for a moment too long; torn between turning away from all this _again_ , and, actually indulging what he so obviously wanted.

And it _was_ obvious.

Tom was watching him in such a way that it seemed to slow time itself, slip it down to a syrupy speed where the inflation and deflation of Tom’s lungs were irrepressibly interesting. Harry would almost think that Tom was playing around with time, that he was whispering words inside his head that changed every perception of what time was, but Tom was just so _preoccupied_ with staring that the idea seemed ridiculous. 

He was standing there, so still and staring. 

Like he couldn’t stop.

But as much fun as it was to just look at Tom, Harry couldn’t shake the vague feeling of urgency; Tom may have been acting like they had all the time in the world, but they didn’t. Classes would be finishing soon, and this entire hall was about to become a highway of first years and third years, neither of which he particularly wanted to deal with right now.

He didn’t have to say anything though, because just then, Tom did.  
“This is…” he said, taking a long pause for thought, disguised as one for dramatic effect, “I think I should – ”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Tom,” said Harry, the words all muddling together as he pulled Tom into a kiss by his tie. 

It was impulsive.

Reckless. 

Perhaps even stupid. 

But Tom just dissolved like seafoam on the shore at that. To say that he melted seemed clichéd, but, Merlin, did Tom actually _melt_. The steel wires that had been holding Tom’s attitude upright just went limp, and when he _finally_ gave in to whatever he’d been avoiding, and it was like watching the Colosseum collapse, and feeling it too. 

It was an instant shift from uncertainty to assurance that bled into every inch of Tom and turned their kiss from something chaste. 

To something absolutely not. 

Suddenly there wasn’t a gap between them anymore, and Tom’s mouth was the only thing that _really_ mattered. 

Harry could feel Tom’s smile between those kisses that all blurred into one another like a wine tasting; it was undeniable from the glimpses of teeth against his lips, and the flicker of Tom’s tongue, just making all his common sense, not that there was much to begin with, turn to mush.

And it was just so fucking _nice_.

At least, until he heard Malfoy’s unmistakable voice from across the corridor.

“See, I told you they would; so, it looks like you owe _me_ ten galleons, Rosier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what to say, other than, I couldn't sleep and my writing process just kind of involved me internally screaming while staring at a blank page, so please forgive whatever train wreck this turned out to be. (Sorry)


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll start with an apology. I’m sorry that you’ve all had to wait so long for this update, (I’m not entirely sure if it’ll be worth it), but I’ve had a hectic couple of weeks, that and I sort of backed myself into a corner that was an absolute nightmare to get out of again. But on the upside, I think I actually know where this is going for at least the next few chapters so that’s a plus. 
> 
> On another note, anyone who writes rom-coms on a regular basis has my most sincere admiration because this genre is way harder than I expected. You guys are so impressive.

Harry was pretty sure Tom had never turned around faster in his life.

He barely had time to register that he was there before he was suddenly whisking himself away with all the chaotic abandon of a tornado. Surely the movement would have given him whiplash, at the very least; it almost gave Harry an injury given they’d been…

Been…

Somewhat entangled. 

In a public corridor.

Well, it could have been worse. 

Except, oh yes, it _was_ fucking worse because Malfoy had been watching, probably taking notes and snapping pictures that would somehow magically end up _everywhere_.

He’d probably write his dissertation on it. 

So, Harry kept his eyes shut for _several_ moments longer than necessary because, whilst he knew exactly what he was about to see; it was a whole other thing to actually have to see Malfoy’s smug little facing staring at him. 

Not to mention Rosier. 

_Fucking Druella Rosier._

Well them, and, the fact that if Harry really thought about it, he could still taste the tip of Tom’s tongue, and feel the press of his mouth and the scratching of his nails. Just the _everything_ that made Tom so fucking good to swallow up even in the smallest quantities. The little tiny things that made him addictive. 

An opioid to a pain he barely knew he had. 

Ideally, if Harry actually got what he wanted for once, this would have been the time he found out that he could go invisible, or turn into a wall, or just dissolve into a fucking puddle on the floor that didn’t have to deal with any sort of consequence, ever. 

But he couldn’t avoid this forever.

He swallowed. 

And opened his eyes. 

Across the hall, Malfoy was standing beside Rosier, both had their arms folded and were leaning back against the stone, one foot up, the other flat on the ground. When they stood like that, they just so creepily alike, as though all posh purebloods only had four genes to share between the lot of them and now, they were severely running out of genetic variance.

Harry couldn’t help but grimace a little at the sight. Malfoy was annoying, but his particular brand of irritation was usually harmless, Rosier’s, on the other hand, was definitely not. She was one of those people who didn’t even bother trying to hide her affinity to the darker spheres of magic. Simply, if something was banned, then Rosier would almost certainly know how to find it, use it, do it. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she was also burdened with a chronic disinterest, not a tendency towards distraction as Lestrange suffered from, just pure apathy for the world at large.

An indolence that was utterly infuriating.

Rosier was certainly the last person he’d ever want to be partnered with on a group project. 

Now though, the two of them hadn’t moved, not even when Tom was looking right at them. Malfoy was too busy being pleased with himself and having the _audacity_ to still have his hand outstretched, fingers twitching, clearly waiting for Rosier to give him the ten galleons right here and now. She batted his hand away though, and just continued to look put-out. There was a half-sweet, half-cruel pout infecting her mouth and she was glaring, mostly at Malfoy, but she definitely cast a look or two across at him and Tom, one that Harry wouldn’t exactly interpret as friendly.

Nor would Tom, judging by his tone. 

“How long have you been standing there?” he snapped, addressing both of them with a heavy serving of disdain and side of contempt, but also, if Harry was really listening, he would almost say he could hear the apathetic irritation that only comes when someone has had to repeat themselves _multiple_ times.

Which made him think.

Was this a _regular_ thing?

Malfoy didn’t give him a chance to think on it very long though.  
“Oh… Long enough to know,” he said in a way that seemed a little… too casual, a little too _unconcerned _for the way Tom was staring at him.__

__“Do I want to know _what?_ ” said Tom, and although it was a question, it wasn’t really, that was obvious in the _everything_ about it, and if neither of them answered, then _both_ of them were risking their necks._ _

__Malfoy swallowed, but continued, apparently choking back any fears that Tom was going to do something nasty to him in such an exposed environment. If Harry had learnt anything in the last week, it was that being visible was definitely the safest way to deal with Tom, and preferably, when he was in this mood, in groups of three of four; safety in numbers and all._ _

__Not that Harry felt nervous per se._ _

__Rather…_ _

__Rather…_ _

__Rather a very weird combination of intrigued and apprehensive, like this was the first time he was observing Tom in his natural habitat, surrounded by the other people he always referred to as his friends but never actually managed to get along with as far as Harry could see._ _

__Malfoy saved him from wondering too much again._ _

__“Well, I gave it a week before… you know…” he paused, and his mouth moved on its own, as though he was searching for a word that would get across the situation without offending anyone, or, more specifically, without offending Tom.  
“Before… _this_ happened,” said Malfoy gesturing vaguely as though it made up for him not actually saying the very thing he was supposed to say, “Rosier said it would take longer.”_ _

__“ _This_ being?” Tom hissed, apparently intent of dragging this out and making it infinitely more painful for everyone involved._ _

__Trust him to keep pushing again._ _

__Did he do it deliberately or was he just so _useless_ at reading people? _ _

__To everyone in this entire corridor, and probably beyond it, it was fucking obvious what Malfoy meant. He’d made a fucking bet that one of them would crack within the week, and the result of it would be split absolutely everywhere. The evidence splattered across every surface like a Pollock painting for everyone to see._ _

__It was nothing short of fucking mortifying because…_ _

__Sure, it had been a little obvious._ _

__But it hadn’t been _that_ obvious. _ _

__Or had it?_ _

__Harry tried to piece together all the little tiny moments that had been building up to this. Most of them had been public meltdowns, but not all of them. Sometimes, and he’d be the first to admit it wasn’t very often, but still, sometimes, they’d managed to keep this sort of quiet, or at least, away from Malfoy’s eyes so –_ _

__Malfoy’s posh little drone once again interrupted the rampant running of his thoughts._ _

__It was getting quite irritating by now._ _

__“You know _exactly_ I mean, and if you don’t, I’m sure Harry can enlighten you…” Malfoy said. Though, this time he was slower and significantly more careful with his words like he was aware that he was walking on the most delicate eggshells that had ever existed. The sort where there isn’t even a shell and it’s just a membrane, the sort you barely know you’ve broken until there is egg yolk on your fingers.  
“…I mean you two _do_ act like you’re friends, these days.”_ _

___That was pushing it._

And perhaps, Harry should have felt more embarrassed, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to, not when Rosier was definitely watching him with just a little jealousy. She was trying to hide it, but…

It was _so_ obvious. 

That sticky green had bloomed all over her like algae in a pond, and now, from the set of her shoulders to the tension in her jaw, every inch of her skin was stitched with the idea that _she_ had had some sort of claim to Tom, an idea that had now, very much, been proven false. 

_Right in front of her eyes._

If he was feeling anything, it was smugness; a personal satisfaction that was probably unbecoming but that was cancelled out by her resentful glares, whose depths were starting to rival Tom’s. 

But, whilst Harry wasn’t feeling the hot licks of embarrassment on his neck, Tom had signed himself up to that emotion with even more enthusiasm than Harry when signed up to quidditch games. Even when he wasn’t looking for it, Harry could practically see the tangled core of emotions that were currently banging against the walls of Tom’s skull. Harry could also see how quickly Tom had solidified himself, like a slack rope suddenly being pulled taut; he wasn’t relaxed anymore. 

Which was a shame.

But he could hardly blame him. 

Who fucking wanted Malfoy watching them. 

Especially Tom. Tom who was guarded. Tom who ignored every single emotional response under the entire fucking sun. Tom who’d always had walls, huge fucking walls, that Harry had hardly realised how he’d navigated through the maze, and almost reached the centre until they were all back in place. Until he suddenly realised, he was on the outside again, as far as physically possible from that lovely soft-sweet centre that Tom had, but never bothered showing anyone. 

And now those walls were back. 

Much, much higher, and much, much thicker than before.

It was going to be a fucking nightmare to climb them again, and Harry made a mental note to hex Malfoy as soon as the next opportunity arose.

“Did you _really_ think that betting on other people’s behaviour was appropriate on _any_ level?” Tom continued, the temperature in the corridor somehow decreasing by several degrees. Harry could practically see the ice crystals form in the air. They should all consider themselves lucky that Tom’s emotions had no effect on his magic, otherwise this whole corridor would undoubtedly have been a blizzard by now. 

Malfoy stayed silent.

His gaze directed down at the floor, though Harry doubted it was out of any sort of remorse, more… an _understanding_ of how Tom worked; the need to play his part immaculately within their friendship if they were ever going to maintain it. They’d probably played this particular pantomime a hundred times before; each time with Tom getting irritated and Malfoy feigning a cocktail of guilt, repentance, and apology before doing exactly the same thing less than a month later. 

But whilst it might have been formulaic. 

It was a formula that worked. 

If only Rosier used the same one.

 _But, of course, she fucking didn’t._

_She_ just tilted her head to the side, and looked up, past Tom and directly at Harry himself.  
“And did _you_ think that what you were doing was appropriate on any level, sweetheart?” she said, that usual lazy lilt to her voice. Rosier made a habit of never saying anything quickly, or much of value if anyone asked Harry’s opinion, but Tom seemed to like her enough.

Usually. 

But not today. 

Today, Tom did not appear to appreciate his own words thrown back in his face, however much he enjoyed doing it to other people.

Complete hypocrite. 

Though for the first time, Harry actually appreciated it. He wouldn’t mind hexing Rosier into next week, in fact, he’d very much enjoy it, but somehow it was _a lot_ more satisfying to have Tom do it. 

To have Tom do it _because_ of him. 

_That_ was very sweet indeed, so much so, that Harry couldn’t help the balmy feeling spreading through him like warm honey, blurring out all the harsh edges and sharp corners until he was just all warm and fuzzy inside. But only because Tom’s gesture would look absolutely lovely hanging over his head for the rest of the school term, and, if Harry had anything to do with it, the rest of his life. 

“He is not _your_ sweetheart,” said Tom quietly, taking a step forward, the tips of his fingers brushing his wand; threatening but not committing to actually using it. 

“Oh, so sorry, Riddle, I forgot how protective you get over the things you think belong to you,” she replied with a tang that cut the edges of Harry’s tongue when it wasn’t even directed at him, so it must have slashed Tom right down to the bone and left its mark behind.

He never did like being called out. 

Come to think of it, there was a protectiveness of sorts in the way that Tom was standing. He was firmly between Harry and the other two, rather like a lion protecting its share of a gazelle from the rest of the pride. It was both, kind of sweet, and slightly unnerving, Harry might have liked Tom but that did not mean he was willing to be his next meal and nothing more. 

“Apologise, to him,” Tom said, knocking Harry out of his burgeoning plans on being a more permanent fixture and back into the reality that was actually happening in front of him, which, if he was entirely honest, was developing like a catfight. 

Both Tom and Rosier were watching each other as cats do, just watching and waiting; he was surprised they weren’t hissing at each other. He’d never seen Tom fight with anyone because most people didn’t bother to start a fight, they knew they wouldn’t win. 

“Excuse me?” said Rosier, her tone bordering on disbelieving. 

Malfoy looked a little disbelieving too, though probably for entirely different reasons. Harry was a little surprised Tom hadn’t asked him to leave as he was definitely enjoying himself _way_ too much. But that was just Malfoy wasn’t it? He stirred things up and then sat back a safe distance away with a bucket of popcorn to watch the inevitable fallout. 

“I said,” Tom continued, never taking his eyes off her, “apologise, to Harry.”

Rosier laughed. Openly. Loudly. And in a way that made Harry very glad he was on this side of Tom for a change.  
“ _I_ just lost ten bloody galleons because of your indiscretions, and now you want me to _apologise_ to the little wretch who’s responsible? I don’t think so, Riddle.”

She spat Tom’s name out like each and every one of the letters had personally offended her. 

They probably had. 

Tom only continued to steadily glare. His fingers tapping the edge of his thigh as he took in even the finest details of her expression.  
“I think you’ll find, the only person who is responsible for this mess, is you, and your quite frankly stupid decision to take Malfoy up on a bet,” said Tom directing his glare for a moment at Malfoy who once again recoiled like a tulip’s petals do at night. 

“Now apologise.”

“No.” 

Even Malfoy looked surprised at that one. The slight shift in his features was enough to say that this wasn’t fun anymore, that Rosier had crossed a line that even _he_ , with all his granted liberties, wouldn’t.

Tom seemed to think so too because he smiled. 

Harry could see a glimmer of it from where he was standing, just a crystal glimmer before he stepped closer to her. It was his unique smile that was both superficially charming and glazed with a frost that could freeze anything it touched.

“You know, jealousy really isn’t your colour, Druella,” Tom said, standing close enough that he could have become the romantic lead in any trashy romance novel. The sort of close enough that he could brush the hair out of her eyes; close enough that he could kiss her if he wanted to.

Harry sincerely hoped that he _didn’t_ want to. 

Because there was no fucking way he had navigated the storm that constituted as Tom’s emotional state for the last two weeks only to have him kiss someone else like a bad twist at the end of poorly written novel. 

“Perhaps not Tom,” she hissed, “but weaknesses like _him_ certainly don’t suit you,” she finished, soft and simpering, and with a little smile that said she thought she now had the upper hand. 

And there was silence.

Complete silence. 

Tom was standing still enough that you’d almost think she’d slapped him.

To anyone who didn’t know him, they’d think he’d been stunned into silence, but anyone, who _did_ know Tom, could practically see him sifting through responses, trying on masks and characters and personalities, and trying to decide how best to reproach. 

It was like waiting for a fireworks display. 

“Oh, you just don’t know when to stop digging, do you, Rosier?” Tom practically purred, his head tipped to the side and plasticity to his body that was so impeccably fake. It was like watching an actor start a scene in the middle of a conversation, or perhaps a caterpillar emerging from a pupa with its new skin on display. 

“Or…” Tom paused, revelling in the drama of it all enough for Harry to roll his eyes and consider sitting down on the floor; after all, when Tom got started dissecting someone’s argument, it was hardly a quick affair.

And he’d know, given how many times he’s been on the receiving end. 

Though never with this much viciousness. 

“Or, do you know exactly when to stop,” he murmured, “and simply ignore it because you want a reaction?”

Rosier didn’t say anything. 

“That’s a yes then, isn’t it?”

Rosier still didn’t say anything. She just stared back at him, seeing nothing in his face. Almost as though she were trying to look straight through him and focus all her attention on Harry himself, like she could make him spontaneously combust just by looking. 

And Tom noticed. 

“Pay attention,” he said, his thumb lightly grazing the underside of her chin, forcing her to look at his eyes instead of just his cheek. His next words were spoken very quietly, and if there had been just one other conversation happening in the entire corridor, Harry would have missed the implicit, intimate threat sewn between the vowels.  
“You know I would hate to react badly, Rosier, but I will if you don’t shut your mouth, understand?” 

“I thought you wanted my mouth wide open,” Rosier replied through gritted teeth, holding her ground even when the floor beneath her feet was so obviously starting to crumble into dust. Harry briefly had to wonder if this is what he had looked all those times when he’d been so unmistakably losing but had still insisted on grasping at straws in a vague attempt to undermine Tom. 

Tom didn’t even flinch, he just smiled in a way that was so _knowing_. 

“We can talk about your mouth if you want, Druella. And I can talk to Black about it. I can tell him _everything_ that it can do, is that what you want?”

“You wouldn’t.”

But her voice quivered just enough. 

And for a moment, she sounded scared.

“Well – ” 

But whatever Tom was going to say was stopped before it could leave his mouth and stain the air, at the harsh sound of the bell ringing. It was death’s knell for this conversation as scarcely a second later, hordes of first years started to pour out of every door and down from every corridor. 

They were practically coming out the floor.

An infestation of rats or cockroaches or anything else equally unpleasant.

And thinking of unpleasant things, both Tom and Rosier had turned to face him. Rosier was watching him with loathing, the words that her tongue was supposed to say were burning through the muscle 

“I’m so sorry, Potter,” she spat out, barely looking at him and making a face at Tom before walking away. Malfoy went to go after her, but Tom caught his arm.

“A word to anyone about this, and you’ll regret ever having a tongue, got it?” 

Malfoy just rolled his eyes.  
“Yes, sure, whatever,” he said, “but, just so you know, I’ve got nearly a hundred galleons hanging on this, so don’t you dare let me down.”

In the second that it took Tom to comprehend what he’d said, Malfoy wriggled away and started after Rosier. But, when he clearly thought he was adequately far enough away that Tom wasn’t going to do anything in front of a bunch of twelve-year-olds, he turned around and stopped, causing several first-years to almost go into the back of him. 

“By the way,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the clamour of too many people, “I think congratulations are in order, Harry, I’m sure you know what for. And I, for one, am looking forward to the sequel, if you know what I mean.”

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He just smiled and walked away, all the children parting for him like the fucking red sea. 

By the time Harry looked back, Tom had gone a considerable distance down the corridor, apparently having been willing caught up in the riptide of children, all _way_ too excited to be back for the summer term.

Did they know what an exam was?

“Where, the fuck, are you going?” Harry called out, trying, and failing, to move quickly between all these bodies. It was the one time he was envious of Malfoy and his apparently biblical status. 

But Tom heard him. 

He could hardly have pretended not to. 

“I’m going to the library, to write that essay that you didn’t because you were so incredibly distracted by _me_ ,” he said, not stopping and not turning. That tension still strung heavily through his shoulders, threaded so tight between the bones, and the walls still up, still guarded. 

“But we haven’t talked yet?”

“Essay.”

And just like that, they were back to square one again. 

Or they would have been if Harry had just turned around and walked away.

But there was no fucking way he was doing that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I’m happy with this chapter, but then again, I don’t think I’ll ever be, so I hope it was vaguely ok, and thanks for being so patient.


	29. Chapter 29

Tom had managed to navigate three hallways and a flight of stairs before Harry could catch up to at least see him turning yet another corner. Apparently, he had the same biblical ability to part the rivers of children as Malfoy did, though Tom did it with more finesse. The gentle, guiding hand on the shoulders of any stragglers held far more discretion than Malfoy’s shoving. 

Not that Tom really needed to move them. 

No, most of these children were probably tripping over themselves to let him past. 

Not that Harry could pretend he was altogether any better. Back in his first year, he’d have let the Gryffindor quidditch captain literally walk all over his face if it meant that they interacted for more than a second. 

So, he could hardly blame him. 

If he properly thought about it, there were things he’d let Tom do to him that were less than healthy, and he’d certainly like to do _a lot_ of things to Tom. Things like grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him against the wall and kissing him until he couldn’t even remember his own name. 

At least, that’s what he’d _usually_ like to do.

But right now, Harry would more than happily punch him in the fucking face because what the actual fuck was half that conversation? 

Far too many things had happened and been said, far too quickly for Harry to process properly, and he couldn’t help but think this would all be so much easier if he had quidditch commentators following him around. If that had been the case, it would have been so much easier to dissect the last twenty minutes of his life into a nice, compressed, three bullet points. 

Harry huffed out loud as he rounded a corner, narrowly missing the stone of the wall, and just in time to see Tom turn sharply right. This was surely the longest route to get to the library that he was physically able to go, short of wandering outside for a bit.

But despite it all, Harry could practically see the highlights of the last twenty minutes spinning around like little candy carousels inside his head. 

_He is not your sweetheart._

The words flickered past with the same tenseness that Tom had had in his hands when he said it. The same defensive manner was strung between the letters as had coloured his voice, and that made Harry feel weirdly warm inside. It was nice to be defended like that. 

Not that it had stopped Rosier, and her nasty little tone was still scratching into his head when he knew it shouldn’t. 

_Weaknesses like him certainly don’t suit you._

That one was sugar-coated, and Harry suspected that if he hadn’t been there, Rosier might have used some more… choice words to describe him. Ones that no one, however optimistic, could describe as pleasant. 

_I thought you wanted my mouth wide open._

Merlin, Harry could almost laugh at that one. That was a blaring neon light that couldn’t possibly mean anything other than exactly what Harry thought it meant, and that was something he _really_ didn’t want to think about right now, or any other time, for that matter.

That was why he didn’t like Druella fucking Rosier. 

Because she always said things like that. The sort of maddening, little things that everyone knows are true, deep down, in the dark nadirs of their stomach, but never wants to admit to the open air. This revelation, though it could hardly be called such, was the same. 

Harry had always known. 

It had just never bothered him this much before. 

And it was _really_ bothering him now, like a fly caught in spider’s web, he was stuck on the curl of her lips, and that treacherous way that her eyes glittered when she thought she had the upper hand. Harry couldn’t get it out of his head, which was just fucking great, as he’d already had to watch Lestrange put his hands where they most certainly did not belong, and now he had to sit there, knowing that Rosier had been there and done that as well.

Well, apparently, _everyone_ had. 

So much for the virginal head boy that – 

Harry walked straight into the corner pillar. 

When the fuck had that turned up?

He stepped back, half in shock from the sudden throbbing in his forehead, and, half from the fact that he was sure there had not been a corner here before. The wall had always finished a good ten paces earlier he thought, leading into an especially wide main corridor. 

But no, _apparently_ the corner pillar and the wall attached to it, was right here, in front of his face. Harry would reach out and touch it if he hadn’t been rubbing his forehead and hoping it didn’t leave yet another scar. 

He couldn’t deal with that. 

He could barely deal with the first.

But at least he was alone. 

Or not. 

A voice interrupted his moping.   
“Oh, please don’t tell me that this is the first time, in seven years, you’ve noticed that stone,” said the someone from across the hall. 

Fuck, it had better not be Rosier. 

Harry looked up. 

Tom was leaning, casually, against the wall further along the corridor. He was alone and looked a little _too_ nice to be just standing against the wall; his back curved against the stone, hands to the side.   
“Because,” Tom continued, “if it is, then your powers of observation, are even worse than even I thought they were, and I had low expectations.”

The faint flicker at the corner of his mouth was enough to say Tom was enjoying himself. 

_Way too fucking much._

Harry would have been annoyed, if he hadn’t been so glad to see him, and to see him in a reasonably good mood at that. But, then again, knowing Tom as intimately as he did, he’d probably been the one to move the wall in the first place, because that stone had definitely not been there before.

“Did you move that fucking wall?”

Tom smiled, taking his time to examine his nails.  
“Really, Harry?” he said, a coolness to his tone that really was unnerving. Everyone knew Tom wasn’t so good at spontaneity; he couldn’t just think of this all on the spot. He needed to plan, to stalk and stalk his prey _before_ he pounced. 

He was still talking. 

“I mean, whilst I am flattered that you think I could, I didn’t; you just didn’t see the wall, which I must say, was rather amusing to watch,” he said it in his uniquely infuriating way. The type that was so fucking annoying, because Harry knew, Tom liked to plan, and he had been further ahead than this, which meant he’d seen the wall, and he’d stopped, and he’d waited for this to happen.

And _now_ , on top of it all, he was trying to goad Harry into a reaction. 

Well, he wasn’t going to rise to Tom’s exceptional level pettiness. 

He was going to be the better person. 

So instead of saying something scathing or sarcastic, Harry just glared. “I didn’t think you’d have the time to wait around for me, given you’ve got to get that essay written,” he said, with a little less bite than was intended because Tom took that particular opportunity to stretch and push himself off the wall, as though he’d been stuck there for years like some sort of fairy tale prince, waiting for someone to free him. 

Bad thing to think of because now he was thinking of kissing him again. 

And Harry doubted Tom would let him get away with that _again_. 

“Correction, Harry,” Tom said, walking forward, “ _we’re_ writing that essay, _together_.”   
Fuck, the way he said _together_ made Harry’s stomach curl up, shrivel into ash and rise again like a phoenix, which was absolutely pathetic, but…

But…

It didn’t fucking matter because Tom had waited for him. 

Sure, he was disguising it as a duty, a requirement that they _both_ had to work on this essay, but they both also knew Tom could get it done much quicker, and probably to the same standard, all by himself. So, Tom had waited here because he _wanted_ him around.

_He fucking wanted him._

Tom was just too fucking stubborn to say it aloud.


	30. Chapter 30

Tom stopped only a couple of feet away, closer enough that if Harry wanted to, he _could_ reach out and touch him. But there was something in the way Tom was standing that made Harry think, despite the circumstances, he probably shouldn’t.

Everything in him was a tad too tense, and not in the anticipatory way they had been before, more actual tension laced through his skin in embroidered flower patterns. The pinprick stitching digging right under his skin in a way that Harry was honestly surprised didn’t have Tom scratching his neck to try and get it out. 

Though he was probably used to it. 

Essays _always_ made Tom tense. 

Harry had never had the pleasure of witnessing one of his meltdowns, but he’d certainly heard the feather-light rumours of them that permeated all the shared seventh-year spaces. No one ever mentioned them directly, but everyone remembered the _’four a.m. incident’_ , and the _’Wednesday disintegration’_ , not to mention the not particularly artfully named _’five-essays-due-in-one-week-because-Riddle-took-too-many-fucking-classes-and-was-now-thrirty-seconds-from-a-breakdown-in-the-third-floor-bathroom’_. The problem was Tom just wasn’t the type to leave something half-done, and as a result he, periodically, became a fucking nightmare to be around. 

A bridezilla but for essays. 

“I do hope you weren’t thinking that I was going to clean up _your_ mess on my own, Harry,” he said, managing to maintain a frontage of calm, even when he could not possibly be feeling it. 

And, actually, Harry had very much thought that Tom would have gone and done this by himself, and the fact that he wasn’t was making him _way_ happier than it should have done. After all, it was just going to be another afternoon spent bickering with Tom.

But, Godric, that sounded like fun. 

Because, and Harry would keep this opinion firmly inside his head, Tom’s two best times were when he was standing as still as a statue like he was now, and when he was focussed on something. The former because… _damn_ he looked good like that, and the latter because when Tom was focussed, he was nicer. 

The pinball in his head was slowed and he wasn’t wandering around looking for reasons to annoy people. Though, ‘people’ should really be corrected to just Harry because _no one_ else had a problem with him. 

If a genie could grant him one wish in the entire world, then Harry would have wished he still hated Tom. Really hated him. 

But he just had to admit that that wasn’t happening any time soon. 

Especially not when Tom was standing there, apparently, trying out to be a new Caravaggio painting with the sun hitting his jaw just so. If Harry ever got into a position of power, the first thing he was going to do was ban anyone being so unbearably good looking.

Even the fucking midday sun couldn’t bring itself to ruin Tom’s face; all it did was make it sharper, the shadows cutting through the skin and drawing in new, harsher, lines. Once, Harry had wished the sun would do the same to him; make him sleek and serrated and utterly like Tom, but he had come to appreciate the softness that the sun could provide. 

How it blurred the edges, hazed every line of his face and smudged the spikes of his personality. In Tom, the sun brought out a stainless-steel threat, cool and sharp and smooth; it let him slice through other people’s defences like a silver spoon through buttercream.

And it was attractive. 

So very attractive. 

But evidently, so was Harry’s own brand of… whatever his personality was, at least to Tom. He could try and deny it of course, but he was staring, even now; even when there was something else that was very important dominating his mind, Tom still found the time to stare at him, strip him with his eyes and just swallow it all down. 

He caught himself eventually. 

But, by then, he’d been staring for, at least, a minute too long. 

“You know, I had to wait quite a while for you; so now we have just two hours to write a three-week deadline essay.”

Oh, how Harry could be nice. How he could smile. Apologise even. Be exactly what Tom wanted him to be.

But where would be the fun in that?

Instead, he tilted his head to the side, the same way that Tom did when he was preparing an argument and smiled with the corner of his mouth.  
“Well, this is all your own fault really, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” Tom said, blinking blankly a couple of times.

“It’s all your fault really, Tom.”

“How, exactly is it _my_ fault, when _you_ were the one drooling over _me_ for two weeks straight?” 

“It just is…”

Harry almost didn’t say the next bit. 

Almost. 

“…So why don’t you apologise?”


	31. Chapter 31

Harry expected Tom to roll his eyes, at best. He expected him to complain and protest and groan at the indecency of it all. Maybe get angry. Maybe resentful. Fuck, he half expected him to actually do it for the sake of this fucking essay.

But Tom didn’t do any of that; he just smiled that same deliberate smile, the sort that small children use when they know they’re doing something wrong, though Harry doubted Tom _really_ understood the line that sat so solid between right and wrong. 

“And what if I don’t want to?” Tom said, coming up so close to him, that Harry could feel the tips of Tom’s fingers touching against his own.  
“Have you considered that in your calculations?” 

Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly feeling far too dry. 

For, although everything about Tom was heavy in that moment, from his eyes to the rise and fall of his chest, his tone stayed light, flimsy almost, like this was something to be discussed over breakfast; as casual, and as meaningless as what conserve he planned to spread across his toast. 

Harry should back down. 

Anyone else wouldn’t have even bothered coming this far. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

Oh, except it was, just to see Tom like this. 

“I want you, to apologise,” Harry repeated, trying desperately to keep his tone as nonchalant as Tom’s own. To pretend just for a little longer that there wasn’t something awfully pressing that they were both required to do.

Tom smiled his half-smile, teeth pressing down on his lip, crushing it. If it were anyone else watching, they would probably be inclined to believe that Tom seriously considering giving in. But Harry doubted the thought had even crossed his mind. 

Tom did not give in easily. 

And especially not to games he thought he could win. 

So, when Tom reached up and smoothed his fingers down his temple, Harry could catch his breath before Tom realised, he had managed to startle him.  
“I think you already know…” he murmured, his fingers tracing the helix of Harry’s ear, “I’m not going to do that,” Tom finished, the very tips of his nails pushing into Harry’s jaw and making him raise his chin. 

Either Tom was hedging his bets, or he fucking _knew_ no one was going to come down this corridor.

Harry didn’t much like the sound of either option; and, to be honest, _neither_ had been in his original plan.

Not that he _really_ knew what that had been.

Other than, it definitely wasn’t this. 

It wasn’t standing in the middle of the fucking corridor with Tom’s fingers as good as around his neck, while his eyes continued to wander; to stray through every inch of his face as though it was a garden filled to the brim with both the sweetest and the most poisonous of plants on earth. 

This must have been what a rabbit felt like right before the fox clenched its jaws. 

Tom did not clench his jaws though, he just smiled, like this was what he had always wanted from the very first moment that he’d laid his eyes upon Harry’s. 

Perhaps it was. 

Or perhaps this was Tom playing along to the tune that Harry had first whistled. If he thought about it, it was rather like they were learning to dance, sometimes he would follow the steps, sometimes Tom would, and sometimes, they’d both decide to do it together. Right now, was the latter, that much was obvious. Harry could see it in the warmth behind his eyes, and the teasing curve of his mouth. This was exactly like the time Tom had been half-dressed on his bed, talking about…

About…

Him, being afraid of what he wanted to do to him. 

What Harry still wanted to fucking do to him. 

It was the same smile spread across Tom’s face, the same slant of his neck, even the same lilt to his voice. All warm, like hot molasses dripping from his tongue, and if they’d been somewhere else, maybe, _maybe_ , Harry would have been prepared to drown in it. Prepared to just let Tom’s tongue talk him into torture.

But not now. 

Not when it felt like he was _so_ close. 

He just swallowed again.

“Apologise, and maybe…” Harry said, knowing he sounded horrifically like Tom, aside from one slight little detail: there was the tiniest tint of terror threaded right through the middle of that sentence, though, whilst the words trembled beneath his tongue, Harry swallowed his unease.  
“… _Maybe_ I’ll think about helping you with your precious essay.”

After all, if Tom was going to kill him, he might as well have done something worth dying for. 

Tom’s entire demeanour changed then, as quickly as a twig snapping beneath a shoe. He just dropped the pleasant little façade that clearly wasn’t going to get him what he wanted like match about to burn his fingers, and, instead, lit something much, much hotter in its place. 

It wasn’t quite anger, Harry had seen Tom angry, only a couple of times, but enough to know…

This wasn’t anger. 

This was something _much_ worse. 

This was Tom’s way of getting what he wanted. 

Harry hadn’t seen it often, he didn’t travel in the right social circles, but snippets of the premise and his own overactive imagination meant he could guess pretty well how it all went down when Tom decided he was done playing around. 

What, precisely, Tom did to himself was a mystery. All that could be said was one minute he stood, still and as ordinary as he could ever be, and the next, he was just _smouldering_. Perhaps it could be traced back to the glimmer in his eyes, or the flicker of his tongue against his lower lip, or the firmness of his thumb pressed into Harry’s collarbone. Or, maybe, it was simply the way he managed to look, both daringly submissive, and decidedly assertive in a single moment.

And _fuck_ it was gorgeous. 

Sexy in the worst way possible.

And it was only made worse by the creeping of Tom’s hand up along his throat, and the eventual press of his fingers into Harry’s shoulder. It was a reminder of the grit of Tom’s determination, mixed with the syrupy smoothness of seduction. And he played it well. Too well, like an instrument, he had been forced to practice from a young age, and now knew so well, he scarcely needed to open his eyes.

Harry kept his eyes straight. 

Not at all regretting doing this. 

Except he was. 

_Oh fuck he was._

Suddenly, he was painfully aware of how open this corridor was, and how exposed _he_ was, standing right in the middle of it. There was nothing to hold onto here, nothing to wrap his fingers around other than Tom, and Harry feared that if he touched him, he’d get an agonising thrill, like cutting yourself on concrete. A pain that was followed by a rush of endorphins, until the throbbing had dulled down to a delightful ache. 

There simply wasn’t an appropriate word in the entire of the fucking English language, for what this was.

Because how could sensations be put into words? The serration of Tom’s smile could not be described, only felt in the imprints left in his skin. Nor were there decent words to illustrate how it felt to stand so close to him; to smell him, feel him, practically taste him. 

And didn’t Tom know it?

Didn’t he revel in it?

He leaned in so close, so personal, so _intimate_ that when he parted his lips to speak, his mouth ghosted against Harry’s, who had no choice bite his own tongue so as not to melt right then and there.  
“If you are going to waste my time, Harry, I _will_ waste yours, and I don’t think you would like that at all.”

“Why wouldn’t I, _Tom_?” he said, not backing down, because, by now, he simply couldn’t. He had come too far into the mire to turn back now, however self-damning it was to continue.

“Because I can make your life, utterly _unbearable_ ,” Tom murmured, so close to his ear that Harry could feel the heat of his tongue gliding over his skin, just as the pads of Tom’s fingers were _gliding_ up the back of his neck.

Fuck, he wanted to kiss him. 

_Fuck_ , he wanted to use his tongue and his teeth, to just…

Just…

Devour him.

Tom continued to smile; his tongue darting out to wet his lip again, and his fingers still hooked into Harry’s hair until all Harry could feel was a flush coiling itself around his neck, and his lips parting in expectation; just imitating the waves of kisses without anyone’s mouth to assist him.

Just waiting and waiting and waiting for Tom to kiss him. 

But Tom didn’t kiss him. 

He just spoke, low and careful, his words grazing Harry’s lips.

“Essay, _now_.”


	32. Chapter 32

“Fuck you, Tom.”

Tom smirked. 

“Just fuck you,” he said, knowing fully and intimately that Tom had played him like a fucking instrument. Pulling on the strings of him until that awful flush had bloomed on his cheeks like enormous, ugly, peonies. 

“It was a problem of your own making,” said Tom clinically; though the tone was at odds with his face, which was absolutely swathed in smug satisfaction. It was layered on so thick that Harry could practically see it dripping onto the floor.

He could scrape it off and use it to ice a cake. 

And Tom still hadn’t moved away. He was still right there, his eyes taking too much interest in Harry’s mouth as he tried to form words without his brain turning into mush. 

As if it hadn’t already. 

Tom raised his fingers and pressed a single knuckle into the underside of Harry’s chin, forcing it up though not really hurting, just reminding him that his exact location on the food chain, was _significantly_ lower than Tom’s own.  
“Now, you’ve wasted another ten minutes of my time; do you _really_ want to waste anymore?” Tom hissed, still watching his lips. 

Harry very much wanted to waste more time. In an ideal world, he’d keep Tom here, looking just like that, forever. But the current expression slashed across Tom’s face was enough to dissuade him from that idea.

The smug satisfaction had slowly twisted itself like a snake in the sun, into something else entirely, and was now an expression that was just as interesting but for very different reasons. Where before it had simply been self-satisfied, now there was somehow…

An acidity. 

As though the sharpness of Tom’s smile had melted right into his mouth and infected everything from his teeth to his tongue. 

And, as much as Harry wanted to acid burn himself on that smile, there was only so hard he could push.

Before Tom _actually_ snapped. 

And that wouldn’t be so pretty. Harry supposed it was a testament to how much Tom liked him that he _hadn’t_ snapped already. For however much Tom smiled outwardly, this must have been getting to him, and it was only going to get to him more the longer the minutes ticked on. 

Oh, Godric, that would be fun to watch. 

Fun to experience. 

Harry would very much be lying if he said he didn’t want to see Tom crack in _every_ way possible. There would be nothing, in his humble opinion, better than seeing him complete shatter, as glass does against hard floors. And _oh_ , it would be so good to be the one leading Tom right to the edge, goading him into standing on the very precipice, until it became too much to bear, and then just…

Just…

Pushing him right off.

_That_ was what Harry _wanted_ to do in the very depths of his heart. To gather all the ingredients to provoke a reaction, and then get a gorgeous taste of the result. But not here, not now. Not when _anyone_ could come right around the corner and spoil what could be a perfectly executed plan; and Harry wasn’t going to try when he couldn’t touch Tom, freely, openly, intimately, because he suspected Tom would be far more _susceptible_ to some pressures than he let on; and he certainly wasn’t going to try anything whilst Tom was intent of being an immovable object for genuine reasons. 

If this essay really counted as a genuine reason.

Sure, it was important.

But so was working out what the fuck _this_ was. 

Because there was no way in heaven, hell or earth that Tom could say this was a _normal_ day. It wasn’t. Normality had gone out the window the second Harry had admitted wanting to kiss him. 

So what if they’d fought like normal during history and again in the Great Hall, and who cared if Harry had pushed too hard, it was hardly _his_ fault this entire essay fiasco had begun, though, maybe, it _was_ his fault that they’d kissed in the corridor. However, Tom should really learn to control his friends a little better, especially when they were _obviously_ a little more than just friends.

So, _perhaps_ it _had_ been a trying day. 

And _perhaps_ Tom had a justification for being stressed. 

Thinking about it, this was probably the first time in years that he’d actually had to use a full emotional range, one that went beyond the superficial at least. 

And who knew, maybe relenting would get him onto Tom’s list of favourites, which could never be a bad thing.

“Fine,” Harry said, stepping back and relenting, but not giving Tom the true satisfaction of hearing the defeat in his voice, “we’ll go and write your fucking essay, but… _you_ have to have a serious conversation with me by Friday, got it?”

Harry half expected Tom just to immediately agree for the sake of getting this all over with. 

But Tom only swallowed, and for a moment, genuinely looked like he might refuse. From the outside, Tom seemed to take on the appearance of a scale, tipping back and forth, almost physically between his heel and his toe, trying to work out if having Harr around for an essay was really worth a conversation about _feelings_.

Because Merlin forbid Tom would actually have to acknowledge an _emotion_.

Even after absolute _meltdowns_ , which, quite frankly, needed names worthy of hurricanes, Tom rarely mentioned what had happened, he just expected everyone else to forget about them, and, usually, they did. Or, they were smart enough to talk quiet enough that rumours couldn’t spread like strawberry roots through the school. 

At the very least, they didn’t make _him_ talk about them. 

“Would it help,” Harry said, voice coated in enough sugar to make Tom look up at him with suspicion, “if I pointed out that you have the emotional expertise of a fucking parsnip?”

He didn’t have to say it. 

He shouldn’t have said it. 

But Godric did Tom deserve to hear it. 

“And how _exactly_ would that help?” Tom spat out slowly, his voice dipping down again into those murky pools they had managed to avoid for at least fifteen minutes. Those words were so slow to manifest themselves that they simmered on Tom’s tongue, let all their flavour come out so that they could have _maximum_ impact. Though what was perhaps more interesting was Tom choosing to take more insult from the delivery than from the actual affront itself. 

Probably because he _knew_ it was true. 

Whether he’d admit it or not. 

And Harry swallowed the gathering lump in his throat. One last comment and he’d be satisfied. One last little comment that might just get him murdered. 

“It won’t help, you just needed to hear it.”

Tom’s eyes flashed dangerously dark. 

“Well then, you have the – ”

Tom bit his tongue, visibly biting back whatever it was he was going to say. If it had been directed at anyone else, it would have sort of been cute, and, even directed right at him, it was more exhilarating than terrifying. Though maybe Harry was getting them confused thanks to the sound of his heart messing up his thoughts. 

“No go on,” Harry said, unable to bite back his own smile, “say it.”

After all, where he stood was just far enough away from Tom that he couldn’t do anything especially violent, but was still close enough to watch every, little, reaction in perfect clarity. Harry even raised his chin just so. For he doubted there was any set of words, strung together like a necklace of pearls dragged straight from Tom’s mouth, that could _really_ offend him anymore. 

“You have the attention-seeking disposition of an overzealous ferret, but I’m gracious enough not to mention it.”

A ferret. 

_A fucking ferret._

It was ridiculous, and not at all what Harry suspected Tom had originally intended to say. There had been too much darkness swimming behind his eyes, and he had held his jaw too tight for something so light, airy, and quite frankly harmless, to have been behind it all.

“A ferret?” 

“You called me a parsnip,” said Tom, suddenly all calm and cool like they had reached the eye of the storm; that or apparently petty insults were enough to restore the balance in his system. Tempering whatever irritation was rising for just a little longer.

“Yeah, but they’re… you know…”

Tom looked at him, eyebrow raised in the mimic of absolute perfection.

“…Nice?” Harry finished, hoping he imagined the wobble in his voice. 

He hadn’t.

Which was just…

Just…

_Just fucking great._

He was digging himself a fucking hole, and, if the small curve at the corner of Tom’s mouth was anything to go by, he was torn between finding it amusing and irritating, and perhaps, if there hadn’t been a more pressing issue, he’d have stayed to watch him dig even further. 

Probably would have asked him how deep he intended his grave to be.

But Tom just continued to stand there, a smile playing around his mouth, but his fingers tapping again on his arm.  
“Well,” he said, carefully enough that Harry clenched his teeth, preparing for some sort of painful linguistic procedure, “as hard as it must be for you to imagine, Harry, finding out you had a vegetable fetish, was not actually on my list of priorities for today.”

He stood there, still.

_What the actual fuck was he supposed to say to that?_

“No… that’s not… what… no, just fucking no.” That was all he managed; vague stuttering that made his face heat up again like a fucking barbeque in July. But it didn’t appear to matter because Tom was already walking off.

“I will talk to you,” he said, poignantly avoiding Harry’s gaze, “if, and only if, we get this essay done on time, alright?”

“Fine,” Harry said, following after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know anymore, sorry.
> 
> And I apologise for this taking so long to progress, hopefully, things will start to move a little faster now, thank you for your patience.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating in quite a while. I returned to university over the last week, and, unfortunately, my degree now has to take precedent on my time. However, I'm not abandoning this fic, only reducing my workload for it. So updates will probably become a little more sporadic, I apologise in advance, and I hope this arrangement is alright. 
> 
> Also, I thank you all for continuing to read and support this fic as it means a lot to know I can sort of write this genre without burning anyone's eyes out in the process.

“So, what can you tell me about non-verbal charms?” said Tom after they’d managed to walk about four steps. The sudden shift in his tone caught even Harry by surprise, all the casualness had been whipped away in a hairbreadth of a second, and now there was something painfully formal about the result.

Like a switch had been flicked in Tom’s brain.

He was now in ‘work-mode.’ 

And when Tom was in that sort of mood, well, Harry had never seen him just snap out of it before. Just fucking trust Tom of all people to never actually stop thinking about work, even for a five-minute walk to a place where they were going to do the fucking work. 

“So?” Tom prompted. 

“I know that I need my fucking notes to write about them,” said Harry, a little snarky perhaps, but nothing that Tom didn’t rightly deserve, he was helping him, wasn’t he? 

“Well, there’s no time to get them now, so what do you remember?”

Harry stopped.   
“What did you say?” he said, hoping he had misheard, but knowing damn well he probably hadn’t. Tom could be unreasonable, everyone knew that, but Harry knew the most. He was the one who had to put up with his quite frankly ridiculous educational requests on a day-to-day basis. 

“What do you mean, there’s no time to get them,” he said slowly, “it’s just down the corridor,” he added; like Tom _didn’t_ know where the dorm was. Though Harry did try to keep his tone light, airy, as casual as was possible, as though he couldn’t possibly care if they went to get his notes or not. 

But he did care. 

He cared an awful fucking lot. 

Tom just kept walking. 

“It may be ‘just down the corridor,’” he said, “but, I am not letting you go to your common room unsupervised, and I’m not supervising you, so you’re just going to have to go without.”  
Tom said it in the same airy tone, though Harry suspected his was genuine; that he _really_ didn’t care that Harry didn’t have his notes. 

“I don’t need supervising,” Harry said, turning the opposite way to Tom at the intersection of three corridors, “and I’m certainly not going to do what you want me to do just because you tell me to do it.”

“Oh, aren’t you?” said Tom, suddenly too close behind him, keeping him to the edge of the corridor, right up against the wall. It was much too close for a public space, but that didn’t seem to concern Tom. The only thing he cared about was grabbing at Harry’s wrist.

He missed. 

Tom had probably _meant_ to grab his wrist, but he missed and ending up holding his hand right beside the second busiest corridor. What was worse though, was that as soon as Tom’s hand properly touched his, Harry felt the stickiness of magic on his palm. 

He tried to pull his hand away. 

But it wouldn’t budge. 

_Not at all._

Fuck. 

Just fuck.

“What the fuck have you done?” Harry hissed right in Tom’s face. They were just enough on the fray that the passing second years didn’t bother to even look at them, but that would all change if a sixth year came by, or worse, a seventh. 

“Non-verbal charms are very useful, Harry, you’d know that if you paid attention more.”

Harry grit his teeth. “That does _not_ answer my question, and you fucking know it,” he said, shaking his hand and watching Tom’s shake with it, rather like when small children stick their hands together with glue and are terribly pleased with themselves. 

Tom had the audacity to roll his eyes. “If you really can’t work it out, I’ve charmed us together; they use it to stop toddlers wandering off, which, if I may say so, you are acting an awful lot like right now.”  
He was glaring when he said it, but there was no malice behind his words, only a faint amusement that Harry could have guessed from that gorgeous fucking smile at the corner of his mouth. 

“Not to mention, I almost got it right first time, until _you_ messed it up,” Tom continued, apparently finding the entire scenario far more entertaining than he had any right to, especially given that he was fifty per cent of this partnership, and anything Harry had to do, he would damn fucking well make sure Tom had to as well.

“And how did I mess it up exactly?” Harry said as slowly and painfully as he physically could without drawing attention to, just how _close_ together they were standing. 

“Do you really think I wanted to hold your _hand_?”

Well, that was a slap in the face. 

Harry could feel it stinging into his cheek, all because _he_ certainly had wanted to hold Tom’s hand; more than once even. Just off the top of his head, Harry could think of at least four occasions where he’d wanted to slide his fingers between Tom’s and simply never let go. 

So many silly little fantasies of lying on Tom’s bed, hand in hand, staring at the ceiling and not caring to do anything but feel the warmth of each other’s skin.

That moment had never happened, and yet, Harry could remember every detail; from the heat of Tom’s palms to the weight of his shoulder, resting against Harry’s. He could almost remember the way he hadn’t leaned into the crook his neck and breathed him in as though Tom was all the oxygen left in the world. 

But he swallowed down all the sentiment, and instead, replied with acrimony. Tom seemed to get on better with that.   
“Well, you’ll just have to undo it then, won’t you?” he said, hoping Tom could taste all the bitterness he planted in the words. 

Tom just looked at him, weighing the options, and Harry could all but see the list of pros and cons being written behind his eyes, like the stars they twinkled in great constellations of ideas.  
“I think not,” he said eventually, before turning and walking away. 

It would have been a beautifully dramatic exit if Harry hadn't been pulled unceremoniously after him. 

In front of everyone. 

But to give Tom credit, he rolled with it pretty well, and staunchly refused to undo whatever it was, exactly, that he had done, even when more than a few students raised an eyebrow. 

Sometimes _both_ eyebrows. 

It was hardly every day that the two people known to be at each other’s throats on a near-daily basis decided that they would walk down the whole length of a relatively busy corridor, hand in fucking hand. And if it had been anyone else, Harry might have shrivelled up at the prospect, but Tom was so…

So…

Fucking confident. 

It should have been unbearable to be around, but somehow it was addictive; attractive in the worst way possible, and Harry could feel his grasp on his heart slipping away again. He was powerless to do anything but watch it slide further into the mire that constituted as Tom’s affections, whenever Tom’s shoulder knocked his own. 

And it felt like he squeezed his hand. 

But when Harry looked at him, Tom feigned innocence, and just kept smiling whenever people stared. Apparently believing that _all_ publicity was indeed _good_ publicity. 

Even when Mulciber full-on backtracked, pushing past several little first years just to stare with his mouth open like the idiot he was, Tom all but ignored him. In fact, he only intervened at all, when it became pretty obvious Mulciber was about to make a scene. And even then, all Tom did was shoot him a murderous glare that promised a very, , painful injury if he said _anything_ out of the ordinary. 

Harry didn’t say anything. What exactly _could_ he say without starting an argument, which he wouldn’t win, right in front of enough of the school that the rest would know by dinner? 

He didn’t bother saying anything until they were far enough down the corridor to be out of sufficient earshot.   
“Did you enjoy that?” he hissed.

Tom didn’t reply. 

“Are you listening to me?”

Tom still didn’t reply, he just pushed open another door with his shoulder. 

“For once in your fucking life, Tom, could you stop being so fucking unreasonable!”

It was only _after_ Harry finished speaking that he realised quite how quiet the room was, or rather had been. It had been like dipping underwater, all the sounds damped down until they were echoey and distant, or just simply non-existent. This sort of stillness was only ever perfected in one place. 

The library. 

But now, it wasn’t the sweet soft silence of several studying students, now, it was the rigid silence of everyone looking at each other, trying to work out what had just happened. Harry could feel all their eyes on Tom and him, or rather, on their hands still fastened together as though they were buckled. 

Everyone was looking at them.

Including the librarian. 

_Especially_ the librarian. 

And less than two minutes after arriving at the library, they were leaving the library with the polite instruction not to come back until they had learnt what the meaning of the phrase ‘quiet study’ was. 

Well, not ‘they.’

Harry. 

Just Harry. 

Never, ever Tom. Though in this case, it was hardly surprising as _everyone_ knew how cosy Tom was with the librarian; _he_ would never be asked to leave, not even if he outright murdered someone right in front of her desk. If anything, he’d probably get a watertight alibi that he’d been in the restricted section all the fucking time. 

Technically, Harry could just leave Tom to finish the essay by himself, it wasn’t like he wouldn’t get it done. But Tom had _wanted_ him there, even if he hadn’t said those precise words, so Harry would be hexed to within an inch of his life before he was going to leave Tom’s side today. 

Well that, and the fact he was absolutely _not_ about to leave Tom alone in the library. If Tom didn’t trust Harry in his own common room unsupervised, then Harry absolutely did not trust Tom in the library unsupervised. He’d never see him again. After all, there were multiple rumours of secret passages between the shelves, and if anyone knew where they were, it would be Tom. 

Instead, they were both standing outside the door, staring at each other. Tom looked like he was debating how much paperwork would be involved in snapping his neck, whilst Harry was watching the wall and debating whether, if it really mattered, he could outrun Tom. 

Probably, but it wasn’t exactly something he was keen on testing. 

“So,” Harry said as casually as he could, “what do you suggest now?”

“I suggest,” said Tom through gritted teeth, “that we go to _your_ common room, given you were so desperate for your notes.”

“Yeah, I’d rather not,” said Harry, not when he knew the quasi-illegal fourth year duelling club would most certainly be in there, most certainly, about thirty seconds from killing each other with unique and interesting hexes of their own personal design. 

It was better for everyone if Tom didn’t see that; him being head boy and all, he’d probably feel it was his civic duty to report it, and then Harry would be the least popular person in the entire of Gryffindor. 

“How about your room?” he suggested.

Tom shook his head, “I’d rather not,” he said, not bothering to elaborate. But then again, the last time they’d been alone together in his room, well, it hadn’t exactly been Tom’s finest hour. Nor Harry’s, if he was completely honest, and having memories of _that_ incident probably wasn’t very conducive to actually working

“It’ll have to be your common room then,” Harry said, a little smugly because it meant Tom actually had to compromise. 

“Fine, but no one sees you.”

“Why?” 

Harry couldn’t help that small smile he knew was spreading over his mouth; being Tom’s little secret made his stomach feel all fluttery, as though there were butterflies trapped inside his heart

“Because I don’t want them to yet,” he said, walking away and dragging Harry by the hand after him.


	34. Chapter 34

The Slytherin common room was perfectly nice, but, more importantly, it was _entirely_ empty. Harry had been inside a couple of times before over the last seven years, but never with Tom. If they’d ever needed to grab something while they were together, Tom had always made him stand outside in that dank little corridor and wait for him to get back. 

That was how he’d managed to get to know most of the Slytherins in their year, by waiting outside their common room like a fucking creep. 

Incidentally, that was what most of them called him. 

Not that Tom seemed to care. 

But there was no waiting around today, as soon as the door was shut, Tom undid their hands and made a beeline straight for one of the old desks. It was one of those old kneehole desks, though it was so large that you could practically fit a couple of first years under it. 

Harry hung back, the tingling feeling still in his hand, so much so that he didn’t want to touch anything in case it stuck to him

His gaze turned back to turn. His presence was impossible to avoid in here, as he stood a black silhouette against the green light; fuck, he looked good standing beside the desk, powerful, in the traditional, pureblood sense of the word; like he could just snap his fingers and get exactly what he wanted. And that was a little more attractive than Harry was willing to admit to himself. So instead, he just watched Tom’s hand as it rested on the table’s edge, his index finger tracing over the carving of the wood.

“So,” Tom said suddenly, turning around and summoning parchment and ink and a quill before he’d even sat down, “we’ll start by introducing the topic, and then, in the first paragraph we’ll move to…”

If anyone asked, Harry _was_ listening. 

But he was also _admiring_. 

Tom had pulled up a spare chair but hadn’t bothered to wait for Harry to sit before he’d already started to write. Whereas before, when he had been standing, Tom had appeared as the void, now he was sitting, the light behind him gave his skin a greenish tinge like he’d been drowned by mermaids or covered in algae whilst swimming. 

And that had always been the problem with Slytherins, their ridiculous obsession with green.

Now, Harry was no expert on interior decorating, but surely this much _green_ should be a crime. To a lesser or greater extent, everything in the room was some shade or tint of green. Even the fucking lights cast a greenish, almost sickly, glow across the walls and carpets, that made the whole common room feel as though it were underwater. And whilst, technically, they were, Harry didn’t think it was the best look. 

That, and, whilst green suited Tom, in Harry’s humble opinion, he’d look a lot better in red. Perhaps it was ironic, or perhaps it was some subconscious thing he’d never really noticed before. Either way, in a couple of months that wouldn’t matter anymore. They’d be free to wear what they liked without the worry of offending a quarter of their peers. It shouldn’t have done but thinking of what was going to happen next made a knot twist in Harry’s stomach. 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

If he stopped lying to himself, he didn’t want to think of the time when Tom wouldn’t be in the same building. 

“Harry?” said Tom, interrupting his thoughts, “so you can, at least, _claim_ you were helping, what are the three steps you need to go through to perform a non-verbal charm?”

“What?” he replied, blinking too many times at Tom’s face. 

“You know what, never mind,” said Tom, dipping his head back down towards the paper, and continuing to write at a speed that was basically inhuman. 

Really though, Tom should be grateful that Harry’s answer had been so curt if it hadn’t been, neither of them would have heard the distinctive sound of someone something coming up the corridor, and this corridor didn’t lead anywhere other than the common room. 

Tom’s first reaction was to glance down to the desk between them. 

Harry followed his eyes. “No!” he said, immediately, because there were definitely better places to hide in here, like the…

The…

Fireplace. 

Okay, that was a bad idea, but there were plenty of half-decent spots, like behind the curtains or under one of the cushions, or even behind the chair, and he could creep around it if whoever this person was, walked around the room.

“Just get under the desk,” said Tom 

“I’m not getting under the desk,” Harry said, because, although he had _definitely_ imagined getting down between Tom’s legs and drawing lines with his tongue along the length of his thigh, he had not envisioned doing so under a desk in the Slytherin common room. 

“Get under the desk, Harry.”

“I’m not getting under the fucking desk, _Tom_.”

Harry got under the desk, though he was certainly _less_ than willing, and Tom applied rather more force than would have been strictly appropriate. It was too cramped under there, small and cramped and dark; three of Harry’s least favourite things in the entire world. All made worse by the fact that Tom kept his foot just close enough that if he tried to get up, it would certainly result in no small amount of pain.

“Now be quiet for once in your life.”

That was the last thing Tom hissed at him before he was changing his tone to something far more palatable, and speaking to whoever had just come in. Tom didn’t have the decency to say their name. Still though, Harry could hear the smile in his voice, the gentleness he only used with people he didn’t find outright irritating. 

“What are you working on?” the unidentified person said, though by the pitch of voice it was a girl, and it didn’t sound like any of Tom’s close friends.

“An essay that’s due this afternoon.”

“It’s not like you to be so behind.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly my fault…” said Tom, his foot, not so subtly digging into Harry’s back, making him arch awkwardly and try and move as quietly as he could because he had a sneaking suspicion that Tom would actually kill him if he made a noise.

“… it was entirely my study partner’s,” he said, giving extra emphasis to each consonant as though he was trying to spit it out between gritted teeth.

“I thought you didn’t mind him?”

Tom shifted forward, “well, between you and me, Prince, he lacks a certain academic prowess,” he said, stringing out every single syllable like he was clanging them on a bell and waiting for them to ring into the distance before pronouncing another. 

Tom was enjoying this. 

Well, fuck him. 

Just fucking fuck him.

What made it worse, was that Harry was pretty damn certain that he didn’t even mean it, and that he was just saying it to try and get a reaction because Harry had proved himself more than once, Tom fucking _knew_ what he could do if he wanted. 

He’d seen him. 

So fuck hi– 

Harry’s thought process actually came to a full stop, as suddenly as if a pigeon had halted in mid-air, it’s wings frozen half-way through its flight. For a few seconds, Harry mused on the idea. It was stupid, reckless and would probably get him murdered, so all in all, it was a pretty good plan. 

After all, Tom had told him to stay quiet. 

But he hadn’t said anything about staying still. 

Harry licked his lips. If Tom was going to shove him unceremoniously under desks, then he should be prepared for what Harry was going to do under them. Or, more specifically, what he was going to do _to_ Tom under them. 

Above him, Tom was still talking.   
“…Carrow was saying you were having some problems with defence against the dark arts, I can help you if you’d like; myself or Malfoy, whichever you’d prefer,” he said, always playing the gentleman, so smooth and suave like cut marble. 

Even if Tom’s friends knew what he was like under all the pretences; even if they saw the Machiavellian streak cutting through him like a river does into rock, the average student didn’t, and Prince, who wasn’t exactly the brightest, wasn’t an exception. Even she was probably smiling at him as best as she could muster. 

“I’d prefer you,” she said, “I’m not a fan of Malfoy’s enunciation.”

Trust Slytherins to be the ones to take offence at someone’s accent, but then again, the entire history of the British aristocracy had instilled itself in Malfoy’s pronunciations, spreading through it like red wine on a white table cloth; and, it was pretty irritating in large doses. 

Not like Tom. 

But that was a whole other avenue that there certainly wasn’t time to explore right now, however much Harry wanted to. 

“…That’s fine by me,” Tom continued, “though I can assure you, Malfoy’s tongue does have its uses, even if they are few and far between.”

Harry rolled his eyes at the insinuation laced through his words; Tom was only saying it to get to him. And if he was so desperate for Harry to be jealous, then Harry would show him just how _jealous_ he could be. Harry stretched his hands out, the tips of his fingers scraping against the base of Tom’s trousers, enough that he wouldn’t really notice. And he didn’t, all he did was shift his leg a little. He didn’t even pause his sentence. 

Harry’s hand crept high. Pressing hard enough that Tom had to know this wasn’t a through-draught coming up from the floorboards or through the walls. This was someone’s hand, someone’s fingers, someone’s nails pressing into his skin. Harry would like to think his nails were like needles, but they were too blunt to be anything like that. 

Tom shifted again. 

“Is there any topic, in particular, that alludes you?” he asked Prince, whilst his foot made kicked Harry lightly in the side, a dissuasive measure as opposed to a painful one. Though there was enough force behind it to act as a warning, a flashing red light on the control panel of Harry’s actions; too bad he was going to ignore it entirely. 

“Counter-curses,” Prince answered, entirely oblivious. 

“Well, they can be tricky,” said Tom, and Harry wondered whether Prince could hear all the artificial sweetener that flavoured his voice, making it unbearably syrupy, like a toffee rolled it sugar, the words slid off Tom’s tongue, and, apparently, hit their mark, as even Prince with her notoriously cold disposition laughed a little as she replied. 

Tom’s use of charisma was definitely a prosecutable offence. 

But Tom was going to get his comeuppance, of sorts. 

Still being gentle, Harry let his hand wander right up to Tom’s knee, taking his time, and only a couple of fingers to outline the bone, before scratching his nails, ever so light, on the inside of Tom’s thigh. The response was immediate and fucking irritating. For Tom gave up on random jerks and instead, actively tried to aim at him, though what part he anticipated on hitting without being able to actually see was a mystery. 

He only managed to land one, painful kick to Harry’s chest but there was hardly enough velocity behind it to actually do any damage. 

Harry couldn’t help but smile, even in this tiny little space, with Tom attempting to kick him because Tom was _stuck_. Right between a rock and a fucking hard place. After all, there was nothing to stop him from giving it up and revealing Harry was there; other than his pride, and if Harry knew anything about Tom, it was that his pride was _definitely_ a weakness. 

And Harry was never to give in to a challenge. 

_Just how much would Tom take for the sake of his pride?_

Well, he’d just have to _experiment_ now, wouldn’t he? Ever so carefully, Harry pressed his palm into the top of Tom’s thigh and letting his fingers trail along just where the skin got more sensitive. Just stroking, back and forth and back again, casual enough that Tom almost relaxed into it; but he caught himself and tried to simultaneously tense and twist his leg away. But he only succeeded in pulling Harry forward, with the pressure of his heel digging into the base of Harry’s spine.

They stayed there, Harry’s hand gripping Tom’s thigh, and Tom’s heel pressing hard into his spine, for a good thirty second. 

Harry could hear the loud ticking of the grandfather clock practically echoing through the room. 

And still, Prince _didn’t_ notice. 

Which was quite frankly fucking ridiculous, because, one, Tom hadn’t exactly been subtle _or_ gentle in the jerking of his leg under the table, and, two, there was _no way_ Tom had managed to keep a straight face through it all. And yet, Prince was still just talking.   
“…I think my main problem is that I never get my wand work right…” 

Harry skimmed his fingers a little higher and Tom choked. 

“…Well that, and I just don’t – ”

Prince paused. 

“Umm… I’m sorry, Riddle, are you alright?” she said, a combination of caution and apprehension curling through her tone, the uneasiness of asking, mixed with the uncertainty as to whether she even wanted to hear the answer. To be honest, she probably didn’t care for it, Prince had always been a somewhat _apathetic_ individual, to say the least. 

Limp and lifeless was how most people described her. 

“I’m absolutely fine, thank you,” said Tom, though anyone could have heard the tautness in his voice like there was a rope around his neck that was being pulled tighter and tighter. With, what Harry suspected was an excusatory smile, Tom leant down to pull his chair further under the table. When he did so, he did it hard enough that he caught Harry’s shoulder with his knee, which bloody hurt. 

Seemingly satisfied with himself, Tom continued.  
“Now, tell me…” he said slowly, not noticing, or taking his time to decide how to react, to Harry moving, as much as the space allowed. Shifting position, so that his mouth was dangerously close to Tom’s knee.  
“…how are you getting on with that – ”

All Harry did was trace his lips over the seam that ran the length of Tom’s thigh, but, apparently, it was enough to cut him off midsentence. 

“ – potions assignment,” he finished, doing a pretty good job, Harry had to admit, at hiding the shake of his voice, with a particularly long exhale. 

Scarcely a second later, Tom’s hand slid under the desk, fumbling as it searched for something. Before, it eventually came to rest in Harry’s hair. The very tips of Tom’s fingers lightly scratching his scalp, even finding their way down to trace the nape of his neck. Harry leaned into the touch; liking the warmth of those fingertips and the soothing circles they drew. At least he liked it until Tom yanked his hair.

Pretty fucking hard. 

Harry just about caught the cry of pain before it left his tongue. 

He held Harry’s cheek right against his knee, and absolutely did not let go, which must have looked a little strange to Prince, but she didn’t question why Tom had one hand poignantly under the desk, whilst the other remained tapping steadily on top. 

Harry could hear it. 

That tap, tap, tapping of Tom’s fingers. 

“Oh,” said Prince, “it’s fine, I mean, it’s a little dull and I don’t quite understand, _why_ we have to do it, but…” she continued on, apparently, not aware how tense Tom was in front of her. Unless he was doing a _very_ good job of hiding it.

But, then again, how could someone hide _this_ much tension? 

Harry could feel it strung between the layers of skin as he glided his thumb along the seam dampened by his own tongue, before dipping it into the crease at the top Tom’s thigh. For his part, Tom could only curl his fingers that much _tighter_ in Harry’s hair. Pulling, really _pulling_ it in a way that was just so…

So…

Fucking sweet.

Because there was nothing else Tom _could_ do, and Harry suspected, nothing else, he _wanted_ to do either. Not if Tom’s breathing was anything to go by. Those deep, _laboured_ , breaths that Harry could feel as he walked his fingers across Tom’s belt, pressing right into the leather, hard enough to leave a mark on his skin. Harry wouldn’t lie, it made him feel powerful to have Tom trembling beneath his fingers; to have him wound up like a spring all _because_ of him.

It was a dizzying amount of power to know _exactly_ what he could do to Tom right now. 

What Tom would let him do just to preserve his precious little reputation. 

But he was running out of time, for Prince had stopped talking; perhaps she’d realised Tom wasn’t really listening, or perhaps, she’d just run out of things to say to a boy two years ahead of her. Either way, she would be leaving soon, and there would be nothing to stop Tom doing anything he liked in retaliation. 

So, Harry would just have to be quick. 

He swallowed, and with a smile that not even the imperius curse could remove, he dipped his thumb over the buckle of Tom’s belt, and down along the zip. The reaction was immediate, Tom inhaling too quick and shifting his hips in a short, sharp, reflex reaction that must have caught even him, off guard.

Harry didn’t stop. 

He only continued to trace the line of the seam, sliding his fingers along it, starting with one, and then two, and then three; until, just one more slide of his fingers and – 

“Don’t you dare,” Tom hissed.

“What?” said Prince, her footsteps stopping right by the door. 

“Umm… don’t you dare leave… before I’ve… asked how your… last gobstones match went?” said Tom, absolutely not sounding nearly as put together as he’d like to. The edges of his tone were fraying, which was not a surprise as that was one of the most ridiculous excuses Harry had ever heard. 

“Umm… fine? Thank you,” said Prince. Harry could guess the slightly confused facial expression she was making, and he could also imagine the one Tom was returning it with. That special, winning, smile he only used when he was doing something wrong. Though today, Harry bet everything about it was a little more…

Strained. 

Teeth gritted behind his lips, and every muscle in his face working overtime so as not to give away what was _really_ happening. 

He must have managed to keep that innocent little mask on right until the moment the door shut behind Prince. Then, it dropped. Harry could feel the release of tension, the slackness that overcame him, from the laxity of his muscles to the loosening of his grip on Harry’s hair. As though all the tight little wires that held him together had been heated, and heated, and heated, and were now starting to drip everywhere. 

It only lasted for a second though, before Tom had pushed his chair back, enough that he could lean down, elbows on his knees, and glare at Harry, right in the face.   
“I hate you,” he hissed, a certain, delectable, roughness to his words, and his fingers once again drumming on his knee, but this time they lacked the rhythm of before, there was nothing solid behind the melody, and it just looked like excess nervous energy. 

A Jitteriness. 

And, oh wow, if Harry hadn’t before, he definitely had a thing for hands now. 

Tom’s hands. 

Tom’s hands doing _inappropriate_ things. 

“Are you even paying attention to me?”

Harry stopped watching those pretty fingers, and looked up to meet Tom’s eyes, and, _oh_ , he was glad he had. Tom was glaring, and his entire face was coated in the thick shadows that were so popular down here. He looked fucking edible. 

Which was a shame, as Harry suspected he wouldn’t be treated to a single bite, let alone a proper taste.  
“Oh, you are impossible,” Tom said with a roll of his eyes that could have put anyone to shame. And Harry thought that would be the end of it, with Tom deciding to suddenly be the mature one and just get on with this fucking essay

“But you’ve always liked impossible things,” Harry said, not really caring if Tom decided to murder him anymore, he’d lived a good and fulfilling enough life to die relatively happy, comforted by the knowledge he’d undoubtedly come back as a ghost in order to continue to make Tom’s life utterly unbearable. 

Tom didn’t pull away he just tilted his head to the side.  
“Don’t tell me what you think I like, Harry,” he said, all soft and seductive, even if it was supposed to sound threatening. But by now, Harry had come to learn, that with Tom, seduction and threats were one and the same thing. 

Not a _bad_ thing, mind you. 

“And why not?” Harry said, mimicking Tom’s action, admiring the lines of his neck from this particular angle, but appreciating, just a little more, the faint flush that was spilt down the very centre like the milky way stretching through the sky. 

“Because,” Tom said, reposition himself so that his legs were spread wider, and he could lean far closer to Harry’s mouth, “you’re going to give me ideas,” he murmured through that shamefully silky smile, the one that Harry, and probably anyone else, would forsake heaven just to get a taste of. 

“Oh real– ” 

Harry didn’t get to finish before Tom was pulling him up by his tie and kissing him right on his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters probably weren't the best so sorry about that.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short, sweet and entirely unplanned, hope it's alright.

Tom pulled Harry up to his feet so that he was standing between Tom’s spread legs whilst he just watched him, his head leaned a little to the side and his eyes so fucking intense that Harry was having trouble looking at anything else. 

If this had been _anyone_ else, just sitting there, like _that_ , Harry would have said he was in control of it all, no questions asked.

But with Tom nothing was ever _that_ simple. 

And even as Harry stood there, above him, being as physically imposing as he could when he was as painfully aware of everything about himself. Aware of the rub of his sleeves against his wrists, the material entirely too coarse for how hot it currently felt in here; aware of the ache of his knees from being on the wood too long, and, most pressingly, aware of the hammering of his heart against his ribs, like a rainstorm on concrete it pounded, and all Tom did was fucking watch. 

Just to make it all so much _worse_ , he had that horrid little smile at the corner of his mouth. The one that just _knew_ everything there was to know. 

Not to mention the rest of him. 

_Right now, Tom looked like a fucking candy bar._

Somehow both sweet and bitter; his hands placed so deliberately on his thighs that Harry couldn’t help but follow the line of his fingers to places he really shouldn’t be looking. Tom’s eyes followed him with a gaze that Harry would have said was submissive, if it hadn’t been embroidered with such animosity. Just pretty little stitches made of smugness and arrogance all mixed seamlessly with a strange docility that made Harry’s stomach twist itself into an impossible knot. 

He wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe; until the entire world faded into black and there was nothing left of materiality, other than the taste of Tom’s mouth and the beating of Harry’s heart in his throat. 

If Tom wanted that as well, he didn’t show it.

The only thing he showed was the _audacity_ to lick his lips.

His tongue taking its bloody time to spread an obscene wetness all over his mouth. 

Harry wanted to fucking slap him. To cut his fingers on Tom’s bone structure and then pin his hands behind his back and do _all_ the things that had been simmering at the back of his head, clouding his thoughts with steam for _way_ too long.

Still, somehow Tom still managed to sit, unmoving, aside for the slide of his fingers over the top of his thigh and the raising of his chin, just enough to be a challenge. 

Daring Harry to do something. 

_Anything._

Well, too bad, _he_ did something last time. 

Now it was Tom’s fucking turn.

If he wanted something, then he’d have to be an adult and _ask_ for it. However _uncomfortable_ that made him, however awkward it was, Harry was going to make him _say_ just how much he wanted him because Tom _definitely_ wanted him. 

And Harry could totally wait. 

He could. 

Even if Tom only continued to sit there, watching him; accompanied by a million tiny feelings must have been buzzing over his skin like insects. He still sat there like there was nothing in the air; like he could wait all day if he needed to. 

_Fuck_ , Harry could not wait. 

He didn’t have Tom’s poise, much less his patience. After all, what was the point of anything if it wasn’t instantaneous, and what, for that matter, was the point of looking as good as Tom did, if he wasn’t going to let anyone who wanted to have a little taste.

Just spread him all over his tongue until Tom’s mouth couldn’t form any words.

Other than Harry’s own name, of course. 

The thought of it was tempting, really fucking tempting, and Harry would probably have given up there and then and just fucking kissed him if he hadn’t seen it. What _it_ was, was hard to describe; just a flicker, almost a glitch. As though the perfect serenity that Tom had plastered all over his face had just disintegrated, only for a second, but it enough to see what was underneath. 

Tom _would_ crack. 

And the more Harry looked, the more he saw. All those fractures in Tom’s mask, they ranged from tiny holes to great fissures, where he just couldn’t stop the emotions from leaking right out. Not many people would have seen them, and even fewer, Harry suspected, would know what, exactly, it was that Tom was feeling. 

Most people would mistake it for anger, for frustration as the ends of his nerves were systematically exposed to the live wires that Harry would like to think threaded through their every exchange. Simply, other people would think that this was how Tom showed frustration. 

But it wasn’t frustration, at least, not the kind that stemmed from anger. Well, it might have been, but that was of secondary importance; for there was currently a far, far greater weight, pressing ever so _heavy_ on Tom’s brain. 

Harry could practically see it, so dark was it in Tom’s eyes, almost like he had an entire galaxy stretched inside his pupils. A swirling vortextual darkness that was sucking Harry in, much more than he would have liked; pulling at him like a gravitational force that he didn’t even want to deny.

Nor could he deny that there was _something_ in Tom’s face that made him look…

Look…

Hungry. 

Really fucking hungry. 

It was such a palpable appetite, strong enough that Harry was sure, if he got close enough, which he very much intended to, he’d be able to smell it on Tom’s skin. Something deep and intoxicating that would have him drowning in oxygen.

But with a roll of his wrist, Tom raised his hand and broke that pretty spell. Harry watched as Tom reached forward and curled his hands under Harry’s jumper. He couldn’t help but tense when he felt the tips of Tom’s fingers scrape against his shirt, just touching him. Ever so gently Tom pulled him forward a couple of steps, close enough to him that Harry’s knees knocked against the chair seat. 

“You know,” Tom said softly, like there was someone else in the room, listening in on them, “I rather want to kiss you again, Harry.”

Harry looked at him, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel Tom’s fingers lightly touching him as he breathed.  
“Well, why don’t you stand up then?” he said with a tone that held far more confidence than he felt.

Like that would fool Tom. 

Tom just smiled. “I’d rather you sat down,” he murmured in a tone that was jarred with the way he yanked Harry’s jumper again, jerking him forward until he stumbled. 

“What the – ?”

The words caught on his tongue as Harry found himself pulled awkwardly in Tom’s lap. The two of them entirely too close. The sort of proximity that if anyone walked in, they’d get completely the wrong idea. 

Or perhaps the right idea. 

Either way, Harry wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to relive earlier experiences, and he doubted Tom would want to announce whatever this was to _everyone_.

He should just get off of him and do what they were supposed to be doing. 

But Tom was so warm, and the weight of his hands pressing into his waist was so… nice, and there was the way he was looking at him. It made Harry’s heart curl and a gorgeous heat coil its way through every vein. It made him feel like a fucking dessert; so desirable, so attractive, so – so – 

Fuck, it made him feel _obscene_ , in the very best kind of way. 

“You could have just stood up,” Harry hissed, trying to convince himself that this was absolutely something he did _not_ want to be doing. It didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears, let alone Tom’s far more critical judgement. 

Tom just pulled him closer, so that their lips were all but touching, and Harry could taste the heat of his tongue.  
“Oh, but I think I like _this_ better,” he purred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I checked and apparently 'vortextual' is not a word, but I'm tired so it's staying.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing, but I hope it's alright.

They sat there for a while, well it was probably only a minute, but fuck did it feel like an hour. Him watching Tom, and Tom watching him. This close Harry could see every little movement of his features, including those adorable little twitches just under his skin whenever Harry shifted his hips.

Quite deliberately. 

“I thought you wanted to kiss me, Tom?” Harry said slowly, leaning in as he did so; the very tips of his fingers running up the buttons of Tom’s shirt, pushing each one into his skin as though he could leave a breadcrumb trail telling everyone _exactly_ where he’d been.

“I do,” said Tom, making absolutely no _deliberate_ attempt to move, though he couldn’t help the slight roll of his shoulders; at the same time eager to be closer and further from Harry’s touch. Almost like Harry’s hands were making him uncomfortable.

But it didn’t look like an _unpleasant_ discomfort. 

Rather the opposite. 

For although Tom tried to hide how _dark_ his eyes were and how _heavy_ his ever inhale was, by paying an unhealthy amount of attention to Harry’s mouth, it wasn’t exactly working. There was just something under his skin that shuttered as a camera does when it clicks, an agitation that no scowl or stare or smile was able to remove.

Not that that stopped Tom trying. 

Currently, he was mimicking the curve of Harry’s own mouth, though, of course, Tom’s interpretation of it, dripped with a personal signature that was completely, utterly, _Tom_. That delicate half-smile, spread wide enough that Harry could glimpse the cut of his teeth. Really, all it was, was a sliver of white, but, Merlin, did Harry want to feel them pressed into his shoulder. 

It'd be worth the pain just to see Tom get scrappy. 

Like an agitated puppy desperate to relieve its frustration. 

Fuck. 

This was not the time to be thinking of Tom being bothered by a lack of satisfaction 

Or, maybe it was, given the circumstances. 

Either way, it didn’t matter, Harry was one hundred per cent, thinking of Tom pushing him onto his back, Tom on top of him, Tom’s hands doing whatever they wanted and Tom’s teeth sinking deep into his neck. 

Just fucking Tom.

_Double fuck_ , just _none_ of that should sound as fucking… _hot_ as it did. The thought of Tom’s weight pressing down on him and the reeling of his hips as Harry all but fucking drowned under the wave of slowly mouthed kisses, and sharp little nicks made with incisors, and spread out like seashells all over him. 

_Just fuck._

Harry could already feel his concentration waning away. His focus drifting to the unimportant things, like the bubbling sound of water in the distance and how the green glow sharpened Tom’s eyes in a way, not un-serpentine, but still enticingly hypnotic.

He blinked a couple of times, trying to concentrate on what was important here: Tom, and in particular, the fact he wasn’t kissing him. Because, if Harry continued like this, then Tom was almost certainly going to get ahead of him and claim himself a victory. A victory that he quite frankly didn’t deserve. 

So, Harry shifted his hips a little, dragging them, taking his time to feel every millimetre of Tom’s body, the heat of it, the weight of it, the adorable way it fidgeted, entirely _against_ Tom’s wishes. He took a deep breath and stopped moving.  
“If you want to kiss me,” Harry murmured, only allowing his fingers to move, up and along Tom’s collar, dipping his fingers under when they reached the tangent of his shoulders, “then why don’t you?” 

Tom’s neck burned under his fingers like there were smouldering coals just below the surface, and no amount of twisting or swallowing could distract Harry from that gorgeous flush, spreading as thick as woodsmoke all over his skin. 

Tom just glared at him, but the brutality of it was rather weathered by the borderline pout hanging heavy on his mouth. 

“Why don’t you?” Harry repeated, pressing himself against Tom and enjoying how he tensed. How every wire in his body went cold and rigid like an icicle, as though he had only just realised exactly what he had signed up for. 

But he still didn’t move. 

Instead, though ever so slowly, Tom crept his eyes upward, passing over every inch of Harry’s face, examining it like it was a Monet masterpiece.

“Why don’t you make me, if you want it so badly?” Tom said, his voice fizzing with like his tongue was magnesium and his saliva, sulphuric acid; Harry could practically taste him he was so close. Much too close to be appropriate.

Harry honestly could not keep from smiling. Tom was unbearably stubborn, particularly when it was fucking obvious to _anyone_ involved that there was enough _wanting_ in this room to burn down a good portion of the school if that’s what it came to.

But it wouldn’t if he had anything to do with it. 

With a deep breath that could quite possibly have been a sigh, Harry let his hands come to rest draped over Tom’s shoulders, his fingers curling over the bones, in the same way, that Tom’s hands rested on his waist, unmoving. 

Like this, they were close enough that Harry could feel the air that Tom breathed caressing his lips, and so, with a finesse that even Tom must have admired, Harry leant in and grazed his lips over Tom’s. 

Only for a second. 

Only a tease. 

But enough that Tom was leaning into him, breathing in like he was trying to swallow him whole; and when Harry pulled away, Tom’s own lips stayed parted, and his tongue stayed suspended between his teeth.

_Oh, he looked so fucking good._

“Oh, Tom,” he murmured, his hands curling around his neck and right up into his hair, “I’m not the one who wants it so fucking badly.”

“I do not,” he hissed back, unable to stop the slight quiver lacing its way through every syllable.

Harry smiled and leaned back enough to put a conscious, weighty, space between them.   
“Alright then, I’ll go, leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

He paused. 

“Is that what you want?”

Fuck, it all sounded exactly the sort of thing that Tom would say with a smirk on his face, and his thumb under Harry’s chin in that, particularly, condescending way. But that all just added to the thrill of saying it, regurgitating Tom’s own fucking words right into own fucking face.

“Go on then,” said Tom coldly, though his hands didn’t retreat from Harry’s waist.

“I’m sorry, is this how you seduce everyone, by telling them to fuck off?”

With every word, Harry could feel himself taking another step towards the edge of the cliff; another moment of putting himself in harm’s way just to draw Tom out of the cracks he always hid himself in, like sea anemone out of water. 

It had better be worth all this effort. 

Maybe it would be worth it in the long run, but, right now, that quip had cost him. In the few seconds that they had paused, Tom had pulled out another veil from his apparently infinite collection. A translucent little thing that barely covered the tiny cracks, let alone the great fractures, but it was enough to maintain the barest semblance of control he didn’t have. 

“Well, I’d say, it’s working, isn’t it?” said Tom, interrupting his thoughts with that sultry smugness that flooded his tone, as warm and hypnotic as the roll of the tropical tide against the shoreline.

“No, it fucking isn’t,” Harry snapped back.

Tom smiled again, all teeth, and filled to the brim with predatory seduction that would have been enough on its own. But Tom never did anything by half, and his hands were spread just the same, practically burning at Harry’s skin, despite his shirt. 

He was losing again.

And didn’t Tom know it? 

“If it’s not working, _why_ , are you still here, Harry?”

Harry took a risk. 

He began to peel himself off Tom, taking his sweet time to press into every part of Tom’s body before unwrapping himself from it, like a gardener must have to unwrap a particularly prolific species of ivy. 

Immediately, Tom’s hands gripped his waist harder.

Keeping him trapped. 

Right. 

There. 

“Don’t you dare leave,” he hissed, his tone so tight that Harry feared catching himself on the prickles that must be growing on Tom’s tongue.

He did his best to lean his head to the side, eyebrow raised; it wasn’t as effective as when Tom did it, but Harry was still pretty sure it got the message across just fine.  
“I thought you didn’t want me?” he said as casually as he could manage, whilst Tom looked like it might collapse in on himself. 

Though Harry had to admit, it _was_ fucking fantastic to watch Tom try and figure his way out of a hole of his own making.

“You know I hate you,” he said eventually, and for the second time in less than fifteen minutes. 

“Oh, I know, but what _exactly_ are you going to do about it?” Harry said, punctuating every word with a roll of his hips and the pull of his fingers in Tom’s hair.

That was all it took. 

Tom cracked.

“This,” he said as those supports that had been holding up the façade of composure for so long finally snapping under the weight that must have been so heavy, so thick and, so full of fantasies 

And Tom was kissing him.

At first, it was those soft, lax, kisses so choked full of so much sweetness that they were a health hazard. Just the touching of lips done by teenagers kissing for the first time, all careful and innocent; so _focused_ on the feeling of someone else’s mouth that they forget where they are. 

But Harry could not forget. 

Even if he had his eyes shut, there was something pervasive in the air, a wetness that didn’t feel wet settling on his skin, reminding him he was precisely where he shouldn’t be, doing exactly what he shouldn’t be, with someone he probably shouldn’t be

As if sensing that Harry was getting distracted, Tom’s hands started to creep down his waist, feeling every muscle and tendon and ligament, before untucking his shirt, though to be honest it had barely been tucked-in, in the first place, and sliding right onto his skin.

Burning at his waist.

Little ember rings that made Harry gulp at the air between kisses and work his own fingers back around Tom’s neck, his thumb pushing onto the carotid artery and feeling it pulse, and wishing…

Just _wishing_...

He could control Tom’s blood, make it gush from one pulse-point to another until he was writhing and dizzy, and that sugar-coated glaze was spread so thick across his eyes and there were no more insults left in his mouth, just…

Just…

That sweet, sweet appeal Harry had got a hundred glimpses of, but never a proper look.

But then again, _this_ side of Tom was just as good. 

So. 

Fucking.

Good.

The kisses were changing now, mutating, or perhaps evolving as Tom slowly realised, he could do _whatever_ he liked.

It started though with the very tips of his fingers, just tracing over the slants of Harry’s spine, outlining every bone with his nails, and aided by such a diligence, such a dedication that Harry hardly noticed the rising of his shirt until the chill of the air wrapped itself him and he was sucking air between his teeth.

Which wasn’t fucking fair because Tom was supposed to be the one melting into a puddle, not him.

Perhaps it was petty, but petty was practically Harry’s middle name. So, he curled his hands, tangling his fingers into those light curls at the nape of Tom’s neck; the ones that were _ever_ so susceptible to touch.

Tom’s spine curved inward and Harry took the opportunity to grind his hips far too slow. 

Tom made a sound somewhere between choking and groaning. 

And he kissed back harder. Hungrier. Hot, demanding kisses adorned with the very edges of his teeth. Tom plotting out the edges of his mouth with his tongue; marking every peak and gully, every valley and every crest until Harry’s couldn’t help but moan right into his mouth.

That made them equal at least. 

Well until Tom inched forward, one hand sliding off Harry’s back, leaving a large, empty space behind, that felt far too cold. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, between tasting Tom’s tongue and the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m finishing that essay,” Tom said carefully, making no other effort to move apart from his hand now resting on the desktop. Even from here, Harry could see his fingers trembling as they picked up his quill, that ever so slight quiver in the tip perhaps suggesting this wasn’t such a good idea.

“And what about me?” he murmured, his fingers pulling Tom’s hair again, “what about this?”  
Because Harry was genuinely curious whether Tom was about to shove him off when he’d finally seemed to be enjoying himself.

“I don’t care what you do,” Tom said, kissing him hard and open-mouthed, and in a way that was looped and bound with the requirement to stay; as unsubtle as a sleazy lawyer covering the small print with their thumb.

_Oh, this was going to be fun._


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for short and sweet.

But no sooner than Tom had started to really kiss him with those ocean-deep kisses that he felt he was going to get lost in, he was pulling him back up to the surface.  
“So then, what is the first requirement of a nonverbal spell?” he said, with _way_ too much confidence to his voice; it was too solid, determined, perhaps. Tom sounded like he was conducting a meeting with the headmaster and not making out with someone in the common room.

Which wasn’t fair. 

Not to even mention that this was going to be significantly _less_ fun if Tom was going to make him work.

However, before he could protest it any further, Tom’s spare hand was pressing, firm, against his spine, compelling him that bit closer. Though, if Harry was honest, there was hardly any space to fill between them, almost every part of him was _already_ touching Tom in some way.

Most of all, his mouth. Tom had barely stopped kissing him, even when he spoke, the words were blurred with his lips; just letters mumbled into Harry’s mouth, as though separating himself, just for a moment, was too much to ask. 

“So, Harry,” Tom murmured between such slow kisses that Harry swore time was beginning to liquify between his fingers, “what _is_ the first requirement of a nonverbal spell?”

Harry stayed silent. There was _no way_ he was answering this now. Tom could write an essay whilst they were doing _other_ things if he _really_ wanted to, but there was no fucking way that Harry was going to let himself be dragged into this as well. 

“Come on, I know you know this,” said Tom, his hand moving to rest heavily on Harry’s hip, and his fingers just brushing over the crease at his thigh. The very tips of his fingers making Harry wriggle in an entirely undignified way.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s not the answer,” Tom murmured, taking his time to kiss at the corner of Harry’s mouth in just the sweetest way. The sort of old-fashioned romance that just made his spine melt, the bones all running together, collapsing in on themselves until they were pressing on his lungs and he could hardly breathe. 

Tom seemed to notice because he continued to track a path like a rabbit through the morning grass from the very corner of his mouth, right down to his jaw; and what made it so much worse was the fact Harry found himself tilting his chin up just so Tom could continue to graze his lips all over his skin.

“I’m still waiting, you know, and the clock is really starting to tick.”  
As if to emphasise it, the clock chimed, short and sharp; quarter past the hour. By Harry’s vague and quite possibly incorrect calculations, they had around forty-five minutes before class, so if Tom _really_ wanted that essay done, he’d better start actually writing it and not just talking. 

“We are on a deadline, Harry, so what’s the answer?”

“I don’t care what the fucking answer is, Tom, all I care about – ”

Tom cut him off with the quill against his mouth. The feathers were so soft on his lips, but the _only_ reason Harry stopped speaking was the sheer _audacity_ of it. The nerve that Tom had to _assume_ he was going to stop talking simply because he wanted him to. 

The fact that he did was nothing to do with it. 

Tom continued to trail the very tip of the feather around the outline of Harry’s lips, tilting his own head to the side as he did so, just so he could get a better look, before dragging the stupid quill down Harry’s chin and onto his neck. The plume of the feather running ever so lightly over his skin, in a way that made him squirm and shamelessly tip his head back even further; shuddering when Tom dipped the feather into the crease of his neck, just on the right side of ticklish. 

But only just. 

Not that Tom seemed to care. 

With a smile that couldn’t be described as anything other than _depraved_ , Tom looked him straight in the eye, just diving right in without a second thought to bathe in that green.   
“If you give me what I want, you’ll get what you want,” he said all slow and sultry, as though his tone alone held enough stickiness to entrap Harry, like an insect in a Venus flytrap. 

“That’s blackmail,” Harry hissed, very much torn in his choice. He _could_ just go, shut down Tom’s little ruse right now; let him know that this was _not_ how they were going to play this. But, then again, Tom’s words were like warm honey poured down his spine, and his fingers were…

Well…

They were very nice.

Very, _very_ , nice. 

“Actually, it’s a quid pro quo,” said Tom, that smile back between his teeth, “you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, as it were, though…” Tom leaned in, his tongue coming to rest right beside Harry’s ear, “…that’s not what you want me to do, is it?”

As he spoke, Tom’s eyes dipped to the slender space between them, or, more specifically to where his hand was resting, the fingers creeping over the crest of Harry’s thigh. He slowly squeezed those fingers until Harry bit on his own tongue. 

An undeniable heat oozing across his skin, glazing everything with a colour that could only be described as embarrassing, particularly here. Green and pink tended to be delicate shades that had to be paired with caution, and based on Tom’s expression, Harry was pretty sure the colour of his face was clashing with the green that was infecting everything like an overzealous species of moss. 

For a second Harry considered whether all of this would actually be fucking worth it. Tom was nightmarish at the best of times, always swinging unpredictably between seductive, irritating and absolutely fucking unbearable. 

But he’d put up with it for over six years now.

So what would a little longer matter? 

They continued to stare at each other. Each trying to dig a hole through the other’s skull, desperate to excavate the other’s brain, to look between the folds and work out what the other was thinking. Which was exactly why Harry wasn’t going to look Tom right in the eye. As everyone, including Tom, had _repeatedly_ told him, occlumency wasn’t his strong subject and it was just best for everyone if he avoided it entirely. 

He had half-expected Tom to give in, to start writing regardless because they were starting to genuinely run out of time for this bloody thing, and Tom had only just finished the title. 

But Tom wasn’t budging. 

He was just watching like a vulture watches a dying mammal. 

“You need a clear mind,” Harry spat out eventually.

Immediately, Tom smiled.   
“There, I knew you could do it,” he said, that usual condescending tone snaking its way into every space available. 

Harry just rolled his eyes and leaned in for a kiss, but the feathers of the quill stayed firmly against his mouth. Trust Tom to be a fucking prick. A small impulse at the back of Harry’s mind said to bite that feather. That would be a fucking power move and a half, but it would also be weird, _really_ weird.

And he knew, however much he didn’t want to admit it yet, Tom and he weren’t exactly _official_. For all he knew this was what Tom did with all his friends, actually, based on what he know that was a highly probable explanation. 

But that was beside the point. 

He didn’t have a commitment from Tom, and if he’d learnt anything in the last year they’d spent in each other’s company, it was that Tom, however much he denied it, was as skittish as a deer in headlights. One little tiny wrong move and Harry would be shoved unceremoniously back into the category of things Tom wasn’t willing to acknowledge very quickly. 

So instead of doing the dumb thing that the stupid part of his brain was telling him to, Harry just swallowed and smiled stiffly.   
“You said you didn’t care what I did,” he said carefully, doing his best to shift in the _most_ provocative way possible when sitting on a chair that was definitely too small for two people.

Next time they were studying together, he was going to make sure they did it in bed. 

Tom didn’t smile, he just clenched his jaw and glared in the way that only he knew how.   
“I meant,” he hissed, “within reason, of course, and, right now, I need to be able to see what I’m writing; so, I can’t have your head in my face.”

Harry rolled his eyes again.

It was fucking pathetic excuse. 

“Fine,” he said, knowing that the second it left his mouth, it sounded petulant, childish and very whiny, but fuck it, Tom was being irritating; he _deserved_ this. 

With no small degree of spite, Harry moved down to mouth at Tom’s neck. If Tom was going to make him do this, then he was going to make sure everyone else knew _exactly_ what Tom did with his spare time. He was going to grind that pristine little reputation of his into dust until no one, _absolutely_ no one, could deny how important he was. 

At first, he was subtle. Just kissing; perhaps, it was a little sloppy, a little too open-mouthed, a little too wet, but it was just kissing, nothing more. Then it wasn’t. Then it was pressing his tongue right into Tom’s pulse, he could feel it throbbing below the skin, and Harry wanted to draw it out with his lips. He wanted to suck Tom’s pulse right into his mouth, roll it over his tongue, and leave behind a great space that Tom would always feel.

But he satisfied with merely sucking on the skin, hoping to leave behind a bruise, splashed like rhododendron flower across his neck. Something big and bright and undeniably _his_. 

Tom appeared to work out what he wanted though, and despite the tightening of his neck and the slow, drawn-out, breath of oxygen dragged through his teeth, he was pretending to be unhappy.   
“Unless,” he hissed, “you’re thinking of becoming a professional limpet, stop that now.”

“Stop what?” Harry asked innocently, the words muffled by Tom’s skin. He hoped that he could feel the edges of his teeth, and half-wanting to make it not just the edges. To just dig his teeth right into Tom’s neck to see what he’d do.

Knowing his luck, Tom would probably be into it.

And then Harry’s ways of showing displeasure would be _even_ more restricted. 

“Stop sucking,” Tom said, the sounds catching on his tongue like fabric snagging on a bramble and fraying at the edges. His tone was ragged yet, but it was definitely _rough_ , and definitely in the best way possible. Like this was exactly what he wanted, what he had _always_ wanted, but could never have, probably because he was so bloody difficult and never asked for what he wanted. 

But at least he knew if Tom ever needed extra cash, he could probably get a job reading erotic novels at dinner parties; though Harry wasn’t entirely sure if that _was_ a job; but, if anyone could pull it off, it was Tom. Harry would hire him at least, but Harry might have hired him to do a whole lot more if they’d ever met in those sorts of circumstances. 

Fuck, he’d hire him right now if Tom was willing. 

Though, somehow, he didn’t think Tom would be; he had too much pride. 

He should stop thinking about it before he ended up down a rabbit hole where he’d say something Tom almost certainly would _not_ like.   
For now, he stuck with something neutral, but still bolshie.  
“Why should I?”

Almost immediately, and rather like he’d been anticipating this, Tom’s spare hand detached itself and snaked up between them. He gripped Harry’s chin surprisingly firmly for his non-dominant hand.  
“One, because it’s annoying. Two, because you’re drooling all over my collar. Three, because it’s not appropriate right now.”

Harry swallowed. 

So that was what Tom got like when he pushed the line. 

It wasn’t so bad, fuck that, it was gorgeous. Seeing Tom get a little rough, and feeling the press of his fingers, the tips of his nails, oh, it went right the base of Harry’s stomach. To that tight heat that had been looping around itself for ages now. And it was good because he wasn’t done pushing yet.   
“Right now?” Harry said, deliberately emphasising the question, “that sounds like a promise.”

Tom’s fingers squeezed hard enough to leave little white spots on his skin.  
“Well, if you tell me the second requirement, maybe it’ll turn into one,” he said, still keeping that honey-rich tone to his voice; the one that was soothing no matter how hard he gripped Harry’s chin. 

He let go when Harry kept his mouth shut. Though his hand didn’t go straight back to his thigh, rather it rested lightly on his waist in a way that was strangely _more_ intimate than anything Tom had been doing before. 

This was how the romantic couples in photographs touched each other, like that sixth year Ravenclaw couple that was just too fucking perfect. All sweetness and smiles and tender kisses before class that had used to make him want to curse them out of spite, but now made him want to emulate them.

With Tom. 

Only ever with Tom. 

It would just be so – 

“Harry, the second requirement?” Tom said interrupting him, and apparently not for the first time, though he was still scribbling away, so it couldn’t be that urgent. Harry could hear the scratching of the quill against the paper; it was so loud in the otherwise quiet room. To be quite honest it sounded similar to his own, blunt, nails drawing those small circles on the static material of Tom’s shirt, which he was doing, though more absently than what he’d been doing earlier.

But he could still feel the tautness in Tom’s neck.

That long, stretch of his spine that said he was concentrating too hard. 

“Come on,” Tom said, this time though, Harry suspected, he was just speaking for the sake of it, because the sound of the silence was too much to bear; because he didn’t like the sound of his own breathing when it wasn’t entirely steady. 

And it _really_ wasn’t steady right now. 

Not with Harry’s hands back in his hair. 

Apparently, Tom liked people’s hands in his hair. 

Well, Harry was going to use that to his absolute advantage, because even if he wasn’t allowed to leave marks elsewhere, Tom wasn’t going to be able to stop him messing up his hair, nor, evidently, was he even going to try. 

“Are you going to answer?” he said, the edge of his tone just beginning to tear, the very tip tattering already; that constraint that Tom used to never let whatever was happening inside his head spill out through his mouth, was, evidently, coming unravelled. 

Very quickly, at that. 

“Easy,” Harry said, leaning into the warmth of Tom’s body if only to kiss his cheek. “It’s thinking exactly what you want to do,” he mumbled into Tom’s ear, grazing his mouth against it, his tongue running the curve of the helix until he felt everything inside Tom go tight again, like a blacksmith dipping their finished work into cold water. 

Tom liked it though, for his eyes were fading; glazing over and the lids lowering, and Harry could see how his teeth were beginning to bite his lip again. Tom was becoming unwound all over again. And, slowly, almost nervously, and his hand moved to a snail’s pace, taking _far_ too long to stitch a word together, let alone an entire sentence. 

So, when Harry mouthed the very edge of the helix, using his teeth in just _that_ way, Tom inhaled sharply, choking on the air that wasn’t in his lungs and dragging his hand involuntarily down the parchment, leaving in its wake, a thick black line right down the middle and even onto the desk. 

“Perhaps you should pay attention to what you’re writing,” said Harry casually, knowing damn well how goading it sounded, but Tom wasn’t stopping him. If anything, he was leaning into every touch and silently revelling in it. 

“Well it’s your fault anyway,” he said with enough venom that Harry should probably check himself into the hospital wing for his own safety. 

“Actually, Tom, that’s _your_ fault, you’re the one writing,” he said, admittedly a little smugly, after all, it wasn’t every day that Tom messed up that bad, and he was certainly going to enjoy watching Tom hand that disaster of an essay in. And he was, even more, looking forward to seeing him get the result back. 

“But it’s _your_ handwriting, Harry, so that means it’s _your_ fault.”

Harry’s heart stopped. 

He looked down at the parchment. Fuck. _Fuck_. It was his fucking handwriting coming out of Tom’s quill. _His_ handwriting that had written a certainly sub-par essay with more crossings out and black lines smudged than Harry had ever seen. What was worse though was that it did look like one of his essays, but one written when he really didn’t _care_ and he had cared, not that much but he had a little. 

“I told you nonverbal charms are very helpful.”

“ _Fuck you_ , Tom.” 

“Well, did you really think _I_ was going to take the rap for this?” said Tom, “especially when it wasn’t _my_ fault. In fact, I’m willing to bet you, I can negotiate my grade up if necessary, as it was so obviously _your_ poor essay writing that dragged it down.”   
The way he simpered through that statement was actually fucking unbearable, and almost like he _forgot_ just how close they were. 

Forgot just what Harry could do to him if he wanted.

And now he fucking wanted to.

Because why the fuck not? 

If Tom was going to dump him in it, he was going to dump Tom in it as well. 

Harry pressed their bodies together, grinding his hips slowly and skimming his mouth over Tom’s own.  
“Do you know what the third requirement is, Tom?” he said, his hands already sliding down Tom’s back, taking their sweet time to bump over each and every one of his bones.  
“Performance,” said Tom slowly, already trying to curve his spine inward more than human biology would allow. Harry ignored him and instead let his fingers trail further until they hit the firm leather of Tom’s belt. He let his fingers press _hard_ into the skin just below that belt, before dragging them as slow as he could around the circumference of Tom’s waist. He couldn’t help but smirk as Tom inhaled sharply again like there were shards of glass in the air. 

Harry could feel him breathing; those stuttered breaths coming like a camera clicker, _and_ he could feel just how _uncomfortable_ Tom had suddenly become in his own body. Apparently, now hyperaware of every involuntary twitch of his muscle and every quivering wire that ran in place of his veins. 

Tom was on edge. 

Good. 

He fucking deserved to be. 

“You know then, _Tom_ , how to be good at this, don’t you?” Harry said with as much bite as he physically could without taking a chunk out of Tom’s neck. Tom nodded slowly but used his common sense to keep his mouth shut.   
“Then, you’ll know that to be good at this little caveat, requires you to have an _intimate_ …” Harry paused to press harder on the part where Tom’s belt buckle and the zip of his trousers overlapped, “…connection with what you want to do.” 

Tom swallowed, hard, and Harry’s eyes followed the bob in his throat and the breathlessness that accompanied it, though still half of Tom’s attention was on the essay. His wrist was still writing out the words in Harry’s handwriting, and it was just…

Just…

Fucking infuriating. 

But if Tom was going to have the temperament of an overly sly and highly obnoxious housecat, then he could learn to be treated like one; so, as the very tips of Harry’s fingers followed the line of Tom’s zip, his other hand climbed up his spine and crawled back into his hair.

Tom stopped writing. 

He stopped everything

“So, tell me, Tom, do you want to know just how _intimate_ I can get with you?”

Tom just glared, like that would do something.   
“This is a common room, emphasis on the _common_ part of it,” he hissed, though he didn’t actually try to move, not even an inch. The only thing that _did_ move was the deepening flush, like pink rose petals, spreading out _all_ over his face, and plunging like a gannet all down his neck and under his collar, as hot and as sticky as the steaming jungle after rain. 

“Oh, like you care; in fact, I bet you’ve done it before.” 

Harry didn’t mean it, it just sounded like a sexy thing to say, and definitely to think about; just Tom, maybe even in this chair, with someone pressed between his legs or sitting on his lap, or even behind him with their hands all over him. Harry didn’t even care who that someone was right now, because this wasn’t about them, it was about Tom. It was about the flush spilling down his neck, about the sounds he’d make, about how much he’d move; exactly how he’d shift and struggle and squirm under someone’s persistent touches. Just coming apart at all the seams. 

And always pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself, even when he absolutely was. 

Harry sighed, it was pleasant little fantasy, though it would have been even more so if Tom had denied it but he hadn’t. 

Rather, he’d been silent for a second too long.

A lot of seconds. 

An awful lot of seconds.

“Wait? What!?” Harry said, as the realisation of Tom’s admission, or rather, omission spread thick over him like a blanket of cloud across the sky. That ‘fantasy’ was rushing back into his head, seeping through every inch of his brain until his mind was entirely saturated with the thought of Tom doing highly _inappropriate_ things. 

“Nothing,” he said, still not attempting to disentangle himself. Not that he really had that option. From the position they were sitting, Harry held all the cards and they were showing a royal flush. 

“No,” Harry said, leaning into a messy kiss, using Tom’s hair to guide him to _exactly_ where he wanted his mouth, “you hesitated.”

“I’m allowed to hesitate,” Tom snapped back, trying his best, but not at all succeeding, in sounding irritated when he was kissing Harry like the last oxygen in the world could be found instilled in his tongue. 

Harry pulled himself away to take another gulp of air. Sure, in most circumstances a little hesitation was fucking alright, but this was not _most_ situations.  
“You’re _allowed_ to, but you _shouldn’t_ , unless…” he took the opportunity to smile as mercilessly as he could, “have you done this before, Tom?” 

The furrow at Tom’s brow said ‘yes’, but his mouth said a very definite, ‘no’.

_That should not have been hot._

But it fucking was. 

“Are you sure?” Harry said, unable to resist pressing his thumb pressing down on Tom’s seam, enough to remind him he was still there. Not that Tom looked like he needed reminding; if he had been biting his lip before, now he was positively _chewing_ on it. Crushing it between his teeth, until there were white lines pressed into the skin.

Merlin, he looked good. 

_So fucking good._

“Because…” Harry had to pause just to breathe, just to remember this was real. That he had Tom fucking Riddle right here, being the exact definition of putty in his hands. Both of them. For every, single, time Harry pulled Tom’s hair he was rewarded with a groan. And every, single, time he spread his other hand wider he could feel Tom through the fabric, he could feel _all_ of him. Tom moaned as he squeezed, feeling just how hot and full and hard he was. How much he fucking wanted this. 

Wanted _him_. 

Harry swallowed again like that could water the desert that now scratched down his throat.   
“…Because… because that, Tom, is really, _really_ – ”

But he didn’t get to finish because there was the sound of someone’s footsteps outside the door, and as soon as he heard them Tom was shoving him onto the spare chair faster than a lightning strike. In one entirely fluid motion, Tom pushed him off, shook himself alert, smoothed his shirt and crossed his legs. 

Though he still looked a mess. 

A chaotic, unbearably gorgeous, _panting_ , mess that Harry wanted to sink his teeth into.

But he just sat there, shirt untucked, breathing _far_ too heavy, and blinking too much to even be remotely natural. 

Whoever this was who’d just ruined a very good time had better be fucking worth it. If it was just a first-year, then Harry would absolutely not be responsible for his actions. But then again, he, sort of, hoped it was a first-year, they probably wouldn’t even notice that they were interrupting something a little… less than innocent. At least, Harry _hoped_ whoever it was wouldn’t notice, because if they did, Tom was definitely blame him, even if it wasn’t entirely _his_ fault. 

The door opened.  
“Prince said you were in here, and I was just – ”

Lestrange stopped midsentence.

“Potter,” he said slowly, his eyes dragging over all of him in a way designed to make anyone uncomfortable; it was an action that just dripped with Tom’s signature. But then, Lestrange _was_ just a more impulsive, more violent version of Tom. He was what Tom would be if he wasn’t so charming; his charisma smoothing over the nasty bumps in his personality like it was plaster.

Lestrange did not have the luxury of a magnetism to hide the unenviable spikes of his character, so he made up for it with intelligence. An intense understanding of certain subjects that was genuinely impressive, though Harry would have been more impressed if Lestrange wasn’t such a fucking prat about it.

But he was. 

He liked arguments for the sake of them, and more than once, Harry had seen him actively stirring a social situation as though it were tomato soup, always sprinkling extra little things into the mix just to see what the reaction would be. It was never, ever, good. Which just meant he was sneaky and devious and cruel and _obviously_ Tom fucking liked him, at least in some respect. 

And Lestrange liked him back in a way that was entirely less than decent. 

“I can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you,” Lestrange said, allowing himself to look with a similar disgust to that which he might display at the birth of a deformed foal. But there was barely time for Harry to get annoyed before he was turning exclusively to Tom.  
“What’s he doing here, anyway?” he said like he wasn’t sitting right there. 

Tom swallowed. “He was kicked out the library,” he said slowly, just about controlling the fray in his tone, “but we still had an essay to work on, and, quite frankly, I didn’t want to go near the Gryffindor common room.”   
It wasn’t entirely the truth, which made Harry feel slightly uneasy. It was one thing to lie someone like Eileen, who Tom knew only in passing, it was quite another to lie to Lestrange. 

But he did it anyway. And did it with a silkiness and a class that shouldn’t have been able to attach itself to something as slippery as lying. Simply, it shouldn’t have looked, and _felt_ , as good as it did; knowing that Tom was lying for him, and for him _alone_. 

Lestrange narrowed his eyes and took a seat just across from them on one of the, quite frankly, hideous green armchairs. Sitting there, examining them, his head tilted back a little, he looked a predator facing another one, trying to decide whether it was worth stealing their kill. 

Not that Tom was intimidated.

He had one arm slung over the back of the chair, and the other still holding his quill. And _fuck_ did he look good. There was a laxity about him now; carefully curated negligence in his appearance, from that smile pulling the left corner of his mouth, to the way his hair fell. No longer ‘perfect’ but somehow even fucking better. 

“Is there something bothering you, Lestrange?” said Tom eventually, talking over Harry, not that he _wanted_ to be involved in this particular conversation, just as he had distinctly _not_ wanted to talk to Rosier and Malfoy. 

“Nothing at all,” replied Lestrange, in a way that suggested _everything_ was bothering him to a lesser or greater degree. It was written in the way he held himself, the tightness of his fingers pressing into the arm of the chair and the firmness with which his feet pressed into the floor. He was bothered. And Harry suspected, from the needle-like glares, that he was probably the root of the problem. 

Great, another one of Tom’s friends who fucking hated him. 

Just what he needed.

“Don’t you have anything else to do?” Tom asked after another minute had passed of the three of them watching each other, or rather, Tom and Lestrange steadily exchanging glances and Harry trying to awkwardly watch both of them at the same time. 

Lestrange just shrugged the question off and continued to watch. 

Clearly, he wasn’t particularly fooled with whatever charade they had hastily managed to construct. Harry sighed. Why was it always the intelligent ones? They could have played it off to ninety-nine per cent of the Slytherin population, but, no, he got stuck with Lestrange. Fucking Lestrange. And Lestrange did not look convinced, nor did he look happy, but looking at Tom seemed to make him mellow a little bit, which was good because Harry had seen the results of Lestrange being less than happy, and…

And…

Well, they weren’t pretty, to say the least.

“I like your hair,” Lestrange said carefully, addressing Tom. 

“Is that all?” said Tom, though he reached his spare hand up to run a hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and appearing to enjoy the result it had on Lestrange. His glare deepened and he swallowed, and he licked his lips. 

“I really like it,” he said quietly, all sticky sweet like there was caramel stuck to his tongue. Harry swallowed. He was pretty sure that usually, when other people weren’t so rudely interrupting, other people being him, Lestrange’s tongue would have been in Tom’s mouth by now.

It was what Lestrange was fishing for now. 

For Tom to send Harry away and let him have five minutes alone with Tom’s mouth. But Tom was denying him, and he was going to take it out on Harry instead. But as long as Tom was here, then he’d be safe. Probably. Hopefully. 

“I assume you’re coming to class,” he said, again only addressing Tom. “At least, you’d better be, we already picked up your stuff, and Abraxas insisted on bringing _his_ too,” Lestrange said, gesturing him with no small amount of disdain, as though merely being near Harry’s stuff had made him nauseous.

Harry was also pretty sure he fucking sneered. 

“We’ll be there in a minute,” said Tom, not bothering to elaborate on what they would be doing, which was probably for the best, as Lestrange already looked like he was prepared to put a chair through Harry’s ribcage if he was left unsupervised. 

“I can wait,” Lestrange said, not moving from the armchair. 

“We’ll be there in a minute,” Tom repeated, though this time there was something profoundly cold lacing its way through his voice, and his fingers had begun to tap on the desk. Lestrange got the message and got up, glaring as murderously as possible at Harry as he did so. 

As soon as he was out of the room, Tom was leaning in to kiss him again. All soft on the outside, but so much sharper on the inside, the edge of his teeth right forefront, like a great white skimming just beneath the surface of the ocean. Not that that stopped Harry reaching up to touch Tom’s face; his jaw, his ear, his hair, tousling it back into his fingers, as it had been in before Lestrange got here. 

Tom was too occupied with tasting every corner of his mouth to notice. 

Or maybe he didn’t care. 

But just as Harry thought they might be starting up where they left off, Tom spoke.   
“You say anything about this to anyone, and you’re dead, got it?” Tom murmured; his hand was still cupping Harry’s jaw. It was jarring. The sweetness of the action and the saltiness of the words. But, of course, Tom could never say anything truly _nice_ ; that was probably as sentimental as he was ever going to get. 

Though, not if Harry could help it. 

But still he nodded; it wasn’t like he was going to intentionally sacrifice himself to the wolves that constituted as Tom’s friends if he could do anything to avoid it. 

And with that Tom just dragged his mouth away and stood up and began to walk towards the door. He only stopped once he’d opened it, enough that Harry could see Lestrange waiting impatiently against the wall right outside. Tom stood there, his hand resting on the edge of the open door and a lazy smile directed at Lestrange.   
“Come on, Harry, you don’t want to be late handing in your essay, do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise, that was really long. Maybe I'm just tired but I couldn't find a place where I was happy to split it up, so it just, sort of, never, stopped (sorry).


	38. Chapter 38

The class was just starting to file in when they got there. It was the usual crowd that, in this case, unfortunately, included Malfoy and Rosier, as well as Lestrange, and none of them looked _pleased_ to see him. To be quite honest, was probably the _worst_ class Harry could have had right now, especially as Professor Fortinbras actually kept tabs on who was awake. 

To make matters worse Tom had resorted back to his usual self, the one that ignored Harry for all but essential tasks; Harry didn’t like it, but it appeared to be appeasing Lestrange, so that was a plus. All the anger that had been festering just under his skin from watching Tom earlier, had dissolved and now he was walking into the classroom alongside Tom, laughing and joking and seeing just how far he could get into Tom’s personal space before someone said something. 

No one said anything. 

Tom didn’t because he probably didn’t care. 

And Harry didn’t because he’d be damned to draw any more attention to himself than was absolutely necessary. In fact, he was planning on spending the next hour sitting in silence at the back of the class and pretending he didn’t exist. 

And he was going to enjoy it. 

Unfortunately, Tom seemed to have _other_ ideas. 

He went straight down to the front of the class, as he _always_ did because Tom, for all his intelligence, was apparently unable to read anyone else’s emotions. To be quite honest, Harry was pretty sure Tom couldn’t even read his _own_ emotions.

And was only getting by with some half-decent muscle memory like a fucking lizard. 

There were also more than a few stares from other seventh years who’d been in the Great Hall when he’d admitted he might have wanted to kiss Tom and then they’d left and never come back. When you put it like that it wasn’t exactly innocent. So, no wonder everyone was staring like it was carnival season and they all had tickets; and every single stare was the same, simultaneously cold and hot, smooth and spikey as they looked for the invisible strings that connected Harry to Tom.

Did they not have anything better to do?

Apparently not, as Harry had to walk through the thicket of stares just to follow Tom to the seat he had unreasonably picked, after all, he reasoned, if they needed to work together it was better that they were close. That, and Harry really fucking liked being close to him. Well, he’d always liked being close to Tom but now it felt like a requirement as opposed to a choice. 

So, Harry headed towards the same bench that Tom had decided to seat himself at; they didn’t have to sit right next to each other, just close enough. 

It wasn’t like anyone _knew_ what happened. 

To be honest, it wasn’t like anything _important_ had even happened.

Well…

Nothing important _they_ needed to know about. 

But, as he approached the front of the class, any hope of peace that Harry might have mustered up from the depths was shattered as a champagne glass might be if you whacked it instead of tapping to get everyone’s attention; but that was Malfoy wasn’t it? As subtle as a fucking brick. 

He was currently standing right by Fortinbras’ desk, leaning on it too casually and smiling too easily to be genuine.   
“I was wondering,” Malfoy said, loud enough so that _everyone_ could hear, “if I could sit up the front today; it being a new term and all?”

He was banned last term on account of being a distraction.

Even from this distance, Harry could see how Fortinbras rolled her eyes. She’d always had a dislike for Malfoy, probably something to do with the fact he was a pretentious prat who was really quite appalling at charms. How he’d even made it into the NEWTs class was still a mystery to Harry.

But it wasn’t what was pressing on his mind. 

Rather it was Fortinbras’ reply. “Fine, Mr Malfoy,” she said, sounding like she’d had to deal with first years all day and was quite frankly looking forward leaving them to do whatever they wanted. 

“Well, if _he_ gets to sit at the front then so do I,” said Rosier indignantly, and already taking a seat before anyone had the opportunity to argue with her. Not that any other student, even other Slytherins were going to pick a fight with Rosier, and Fortinbras just sighed the deep, defeated, sigh of a teacher who wasn’t paid enough to deal with entitled students. 

And that was how it began. 

With Harry squeezed between two of his two least favourite people. Malfoy on his left, apparently content to just sit back and watch whatever show this electric combination was going to produce, and Rosier on his right. She was twirling her fingers in her hair and talking to Tom about something important, although it was obvious Tom was ignoring her.

Probably because he was good at holding a grudge.

Not that his lack of interest dissuaded her. 

Then on the far left was Lestrange, leaning right into Tom’s personal space in a way that to the impartial spectator might have seemed innocent, but to Harry was anything but. Lestrange had smiled to many times and listening just that little bit too intently for it to be anything innocent. 

This hour was going to be a fucking nightmare.


	39. Chapter 39

It started after less than five minutes. 

As soon as Fortinbras turned around to write on the blackboard, Malfoy started to poke him with the sharp end of his quill, leaving little ink blots on his jumper; even if Harry couldn’t see them, he knew they were there. He could _feel_ the cold ink bleeding through the pores of the fabric and leaving little black spots all up his shirtsleeves. 

“Stop it,” he hissed, still staring at the board, staunchly refusing to give Malfoy his full attention, because that would be a rabbit-hole he’d never escape from. 

Malfoy did not stop. 

If anything, he pressed that little bit harder like a small and particularly sadistic child might to a beetle it had found on its back. In his periphery, Harry could see Malfoy’s smile, his mouth unnatural and upturned at the corners. Clearly, he was revelling having a trapped victim, because, no matter how much he might want to, Harry couldn’t just get up and leave without a couple of consequence. 

So, Malfoy continued to prod.

Always slow, always persistent, Harry would have said he was being childish if the move hadn’t been so insidiously calculated to start a conversation. To get Harry looking over at him, to get him engaged.

Well, it wouldn’t work.

He was above Malfoy and his petty antagonisms.

_He was._

Exactly four sharp prods later and Harry realised he was _not_ above Malfoy and his petty antagonisms. 

“What the fuck do you want?” he said, hoping it was as venomous out loud as it sounded in his head. But Malfoy didn’t even flinch. He just leaned further back into his cushion he brought to every class (because what sort of heathen would turn up without basic comforts he said), with the arm he wasn’t using to prod, slung elegantly along the back of the bench they were all sitting on.

“Oh, nothing,” said Malfoy, though his tongue was pressed between his teeth in a way that made him look unbearably smug.

Harry turned back to the board. 

Half a fucking second later Malfoy was prodding him again. The tip digging into his arm until it actually stung, not that Malfoy cared, he was too busy trying to see if he could pull the fibres of Harry’s jumper apart with just the nib.

Harry clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together in the process. He _could_ appeal to Tom, but that would look pretty desperate, not to mention, pathetic and highly suspicious, and exactly what Malfoy wanted him to do.

So, he just sat there, grinding his teeth.

Just grinding. 

And grinding. 

And fucking grinding. 

Until he snapped. The next time Malfoy prodded him, Harry grabbed the quill from his fingers and snapped it in two before dumping it down onto the desk.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, before dipping down, and, in one sweeping motion just grabbing another straight out of his bag. This time it was new, and even sharper than the last, practically a needle with feathers. He was just pressing it into the inkwell when Harry gave up. 

Whatever Malfoy had to say was better than enduring this for an entire fucking hour. 

“What _do_ you want?” he snapped as quietly as he could whilst still maintaining that he wanted to shout loud enough down Malfoy’s fucking eardrum to make him go permanently deaf. 

Once again, Malfoy smiled, “I just wanted to know if it was true,” he said, “that’s all.”

“If what’s true?”

“That you were…” Malfoy paused to let the snake-like smile slither onto his mouth, “…all _alone_ with him?” he finished, his tone staying light and silky as though he was talking about the weather. But at the same time, there was a weight behind each syllable, and though he posed it as a question, it couldn’t have been because Malfoy didn’t ask questions.

According to him, questions were a waste of time, that, if you didn’t know the answer without asking directly, then you didn’t deserve to know it. Somehow, it made every one of his little niggly comments that much worse because you deny them, so you either had to ignore them or admit to them.

Neither was currently an attractive option. 

After all, if he lied, Malfoy would know and would draw a ridiculous, albeit true, conclusion, but if he told the truth, then Malfoy would draw a ridiculous conclusion anyway because it was fun, and he was perpetually bored. 

“So?” Harry said eventually, “we’re study partners, we’re _always_ together.”

Malfoy sighed, crossing his arms as he did so, and raising his brow in such a judgemental pureblood kind of way that just got right under Harry’s skin for no reason at all. Perhaps he was just on edge, but either way, wringing Malfoy’s neck was starting to look like an attractive option. 

“But _that_ was before, Harry; this is now.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

For several seconds Malfoy laughed to himself, leaning back in his chair and acting like this was the most fun he’d had in ages; before abruptly snapping out of it, his face going from benevolent to malevolent as fast as Autumn rain as he came close and confidential.  
“Oh, you know what it means,” he said, as his hands began to slide up and along his quill in a way that was _very_ suggestive, and _very_ tasteless.

Malfoy continued to smile. “You didn’t do anything _inappropriate_ now, did you, Harry?” he simpered, his words as slick as oil dribbling from his lips. 

Harry kept his eyes straight at the blackboard. 

He wasn’t going to rise to any of it. 

“No,” he said, though his teeth were gritted, and he was already cracking his knuckles beneath the desk, half-pretending that each crack was Malfoy’s bones. Harry didn’t actually want to hurt him, it was more… if he died so be it. 

“Are you sure, Harry?”

“Positively.”

Malfoy leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, and his head resting on the backs of his hands.  
“I don’t think believe you,” he said, his eyes travelling all over him like he was looking for any evidence, however small to use against him. 

“Well you wouldn’t, would you?” hissed Harry, “you don’t like me.”

With another dramatic sweep, Malfoy had a hand theatrically against his chest.   
“Of course, I like you, Harry, why would you think I didn’t?” he said. And despite the inappropriateness of the timing, Harry couldn’t help but note that the performing arts society had definitely lost out on an asset by not pursuing Malfoy.

But he still wasn’t going to dignify his stupid question with an answer. 

Malfoy looked like he was going to say something else, but Fortinbras looked over. Apparently, she’d asked a question, so Harry kept his head down and pretended to write something in the hope that, maybe, she’d think he was being productive and not pick on him.

She didn’t. 

After that Harry kept his head down, trying desperately to follow whatever she was talking about, even if it was just to avoid Malfoy’s conversation. 

He couldn’t. 

For Malfoy was also looking down, though he was doodling little flowers up the side of his parchment.  
“Well, Harry,” he said, as he coloured in a particularly large flower, “if you _really_ were just studying, you can tell me how Riddle got his hair in such a mess,” he said innocently.

“It’s not in a mess,” said Harry mechanically, not bothering to look at Tom in case he was doing something entirely, awfully, _him_. If he looked over at Tom, he might start sighing, or worse, smiling and then Malfoy would infer things he wasn’t supposed to know. 

“I think it is, Harry, a right mess, like someone’s had their hands _all_ over him.”

“What would you know?”

He wished he hadn’t asked because Malfoy leaned his head to the side and licked at his lips, temporarily abandoning his flowers. “Oh, _I_ know an awful lot,” he said quietly, “especially, I _know_ Riddle doesn’t wear his hair like that.”

Harry swallowed, his throat feeling rough concrete.

“So,” Malfoy continued, “you can either start being honest with me or, I could – I don’t know – maybe mention it to Lestrange.” He smiled; all teeth. “He’s not an idiot, but he is an optimist and, right now, he’s giving you the benefit of the doubt; but if he _knew_ you were fucking – ”

Harry slapped his hands down on the desk, “look, I only fucking kissed him, alright!”

The second it left his mouth he regretted it. _Really fucking regretted it_. Now, _everyone_ was truly staring at him, and though their expressions were all different, each and every one of them looked like they’d been petrified by a basilisk.

Oh fuck.

How the fuck did he keep doing this?

An invisibility cloak would truly have been a great addition to his wardrobe right now, but Harry had to put up with a red glaze settling all over his skin. A heat burning from his neck to his fingertips, prickling as it did so, like brambles were catching on his skin. 

And still, nobody spoke.

Harry smiled weakly, his voice cracking, “I mean… hypothetically…?”

It didn’t help.

Harry swallowed and snuck a glance at Tom. He was sitting there, staring straight ahead. On the outside a sheen of calm like the ocean, but underneath there was a riptide. Harry could see it in the way he tapped his fingers on the edge of his thigh and the tension in his jaw.

He was so fucking dead. 

As if to add salt to the wound, and with a smile smug enough to put any cat to shame, Malfoy leaned close again. “And exactly _how_ hypothetical is this scenario?” he said, his voice dripping with artificial sweetener and false honesty.

“Because I – ”

Harry hit him with the textbook. 

Not particularly hard. Or, at least, nowhere near as hard as Malfoy made out as he massaged his shoulder and whined and whinged and fucking wailed about how much it hurt to anyone who was prepared to listen. It was so fucking fake, such a cheap pantomime compared with real emotions, and didn’t Malfoy know it, but he still clung to it as an ageing actor clings to their best role.

But this was all his fucking fault.

Though honestly, it was Harry’s fault and he knew it. There was no escaping that tight, horrible emotion sticking to the inside of his stomach; just knowing he’d let Malfoy wind him up like he was no more than a fucking automaton; wound up to achieve whatever sinister goals he’d been plotting all afternoon. 

“Did you see that, Professor!?” Malfoy was saying, a mixture of incredulousness and oh-so-innocence seeping through his tone, as he stared with big wide eyes and his hand rubbing at an increasingly large space near his collarbone.   
“You can’t possibly condone it!”

Although Fortinbras jutted her jaw and sighed, looking between the two of them, she eventually addressed Harry.  
“I’m afraid Mr Potter, as much as it pains me, I have to agree with Mr Malfoy on this one, detention, straight after class,” she said, “now, if anyone wants to gossip for the rest of the hour, they are welcome to, but they’ll be joining him.”

No one said anything. 

But their eyes stayed heavy on Harry’s back and on Tom’s. Harry could practically hear the thudding of their feet as they jumped to conclusions, bounding around all the evidence like a particularly enthusiastic, but inept set of sheepdogs. 

Fuck, he was dead. 

So was very, very dead. 

Harry glanced up at Tom one more time, but he wished he hadn’t, for Tom was looking a little less than pleasant. Oh, fuck, who was he kidding? Tom was looking bloody murder at him. 

Harry sighed and stared at the desk.

Well… that went well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support, it's lovely to know you're still enjoying this trainwreck. Though I am going to ask if any you have any suggestions you'd like to see, do share them, as my brain's currently on a blank. Thank you.


	40. Chapter 40

The rest of that class was spent in a silence worthy of the grave. Malfoy and he were moved an adequate distance apart, which meant Harry was now next to Rosier, who ignored him. Though that was better than getting repeatedly stabbed; he could still feel where the very tip of quill had gone into him.

Probably given him ink poisoning. 

But at least he was now aware from Malfoy, who’d spent the next fifteen minutes dramatically draping himself over the desk across the room, and whining loudly to anyone who would listen about his pain, though he seemed to make a _miraculous_ recovery any time anyone paid him attention. 

Harry kept his head down, in the textbook precisely. Fortinbras had decided that there had been too much excitement and now they were being treated like second years and told to do the quizzes laid out in the book. 

It was boring. 

Very boring. 

And it gave _everyone_ ample opportunity to glare at him, their gazes like needles in the back of his neck. After all, this was, maybe, perhaps, _technically_ his fault. But if anyone asked him, then Harry would inform them that it was, in actual fact, entirely, Tom’s fault. 

If _he_ hadn’t had the audacity of being so fucking stubborn, then he’d have never taken Amortentia in the first place, and Harry would never have had to face up to his crush, and then they would have been able to live the rest of their days in relative peace; uninterrupted by such pesky things as fucking feelings.

_But no._

Tom couldn’t fucking do that now, could he? 

So, Harry just sat there seething. Dragging his nails over and over the grooves in the desk, trying to resist the temptation to write Tom’s name with his fingers, and wondering whether you could love someone so much that you hated them, or perhaps, hated them so much you loved them. 

His philosophising was interrupted by Fortinbras looking up from a newly finished stack of papers on her desk. “I’ll take your essays now, so I can have a flick through before you all leave.”

Tom glanced over at him; a self-satisfied smile heavy on his mouth, as if this moment was going to be Harry’s comeuppance for ‘ruining his life’ yet again. Though, _really_ , Tom shouldn’t be so secretive about everything he did; it wasn’t like he was some international spy embedded in a secret organisation and his every move could be his last.

Although… 

Harry could definitely work with that fantasy. 

Unfortunately, there were more important things he needed to be thinking about right now; things, such as, how exactly was he going to deal with Tom’s conceited self. Clearly, the mature thing to do would be to let it go and accept that sometimes you couldn’t every battle. 

But, _obviously_ , Harry wasn’t going to do _that_.

So, as Fortinbras was at the back of the class, talking to a Hufflepuff over the inappropriate use of coloured inks, and Tom wasn’t paying attention to anyone, not even his friends, Harry looked over the essay. What he really needed to do was change the handwriting back to Tom’s. 

He swallowed.

To be honest, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what _exactly_ it was he was trying to do, least of all, what kind of spell was going to get it done. But as Fortinbras was collecting essays on the other side of the room, Harry got theirs out. Every shred of morality inside him told him he really shouldn’t, but if Tom hated him, then the only polite thing to do was to fucking drop him in it. 

And Harry was going to enjoy it. 

Several unsightly charms later, Harry’s own scrawling handwriting had been mostly turned into Tom’s defined hand. It was by no means perfect, even from a quick glance, Harry knew the loops were wrong and that he hadn’t quite captured the weird thing that Tom did with the letter ‘t’ that made it, frankly indecipherable. 

But it was close enough.

Especially as Fortinbras didn’t teach sixth years, and as far as Harry was aware, hadn’t actually read anything Tom had written this year, given Harry had been doing the writing. She certainly didn’t mention it as she plucked the thing out of his hands.

Nor did she comment on how weirdly warm the paper was from having magic worked between the very fibres of the paper. All she did was pick it up and move along down the row and begin a heated debate with Rosier over the quite simply _magical_ absence of her own essay. 

Having very nearly lost that argument, Fortinbras returned to her desk and started to flick through the pile, reading, by the looks of it, just a couple of paragraphs before skipping onto the next one. Harry watched her intently, eyes firm on each of the papers, trying to see something distinguishing that would have told him it was theirs. 

As it turned out, he didn’t need to. 

For when their essay came up, Fortinbras held it to her face, a strange look plastered over her features. Several times, Harry saw her eyes go back to the names in the top right-hand corner and her eyebrow arch in what could only be ill-disguised scepticism. She didn’t place it back into the main pile. 

And Tom didn’t notice.

He was too busy actually doing the work. If they were still on speaking terms by tomorrow, Harry would copy it all off of him; but for now, he sat there, twisting his hands unable to stop the gorgeously _wrong_ squeezing in his stomach. He wondered if this was how Tom felt all the time; always on edge with anticipation with how _well_ a plan was going to be received. 

Oh, this was going to be fun.


	41. Chapter 41

The bell interrupted his more unscrupulous thoughts. 

Almost immediately everyone started getting up, including Tom, as Fortinbras had never been one to keep them longer than necessary. Harry had always got the impression that, like them, there were a variety of things that she would rather be doing than sitting in this classroom, teaching. 

She’d only kept him at all back to appease Malfoy before he got his parent’s down everyone’s throats _again_. 

Thinking of Malfoy, Tom was being cold towards him, more than cold, downright frosty as he walked away before Malfoy could even say anything. Apparently, he was recognising that, for once, the situation wasn’t caused _entirely_ by Harry himself. 

Just mostly. 

As Harry watched, he saw Tom was actually being cold to _all_ of them, not that they left him alone. Malfoy, Lestrange and Rosier all continued to drone around him like bees around their queen, or rather, wasps. Each buzzing with their own personal grievances, none of which Tom looked like he wanted to deal with right now. 

Really, he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the entire world.

So perhaps it was a blessing that, before he reached the door, Fortinbras was calling out, “Mr Riddle, can you stay behind, please? I’d like a word.”  
Her tone was more proper than she’d typically use with him, because, somehow, Tom had managed to cultivate a camaraderie with almost every single teacher, tending to their relationships like a dedicated gardener. 

Still, though, Tom stopped, the others did too; all looking at him like sheep waiting for instructions, he just waved them away with a shrug and a simple raised eyebrow. Regardless of their obvious dismissal, it still took them a good minute to actually leave the room without him, all of them bickering with each other like birds at dawn as they did so. 

How Tom actually put up with them all the time, Harry would never know. 

When they did eventually manage to leave, Tom came back down to the front of the classroom, running his fingers over the desks as he did so. “What is it, Professor?” he said, all sugar sweet as usual when he was around any sort of authority. It was just another one of Tom’s facades, a pretty little exterior that he put up, and if it were a house, it would have been the sort built with red brick and white picket fence.

“Take a seat.” 

Tom glanced across at Harry, momentarily unsure, but he turned one of the seats around quickly enough and sat down. His legs cross and back perfectly straight, the epitome of dignity and decorum. 

Harry couldn’t wait to see it all start to crumble. 

“I was flicking through the essays,” said Fortinbras, still flipping through said papers, clearly looking for theirs, “and I noticed, simply by reading the first few paragraphs that, yours was… well, let’s just say, it’s not equivalent to your usual standard,” she said, finally finding their essay. 

“Well,” Tom started, “isn’t that a matter for – ”

“It’s in your handwriting, Tom, so I thought I’d ask _you_ first,” Fortinbras interrupted.

Tom smiled more for lack of words than anything else, and before any could be formed on his tongue, Fortinbras was sliding the parchment over to their side of the desk. Tom looked at it, and in a few seconds that seemed to last forever, Harry saw a whole amusement park of emotions glide over his face. It started with disbelief, that quickly merged into surprise, that glided into dismay, that slid into irritation, before finally waltzing into despair. 

It was fucking beautiful. 

Out of view of Fortinbras, Tom’s fingers started to tap wildly on his thigh, and he cast slightest of murderous glances over at Harry.

In her view though, he smiled weakly and swallowed; Harry could practically hear his tongue working its way around his mouth, searching hard for an excuse from the back of his throat. And at that moment, Harry decided that he had definitely not seen enough of Tom being out of his depth, because he was so fucking _cute_ when he was flailing. 

Like lion cub trying to work out how to roar. 

Enjoying this definitely made Harry a slightly bad person. 

“Umm… I offer…” Tom started slowly, “…my sincerest apologies, Professor. I was going to talk you, but the time didn’t seem quite right – given that Harry was here,” he said, glancing nervously over at him; his eyes wide and jumpy like a rabbit at dusk.

“It’s just Harry,” said Fortinbras in a way that Harry couldn’t decide whether it was supposed to be an insult or a compliment. He didn’t mention it. 

Back on what was now a stage, Tom bit his lip, though, Harry suspected, it wasn’t out of nervousness. Not at all. It couldn’t be, Tom was never _nervous_. But Tom continued to look down at the desk, his eyes tracing the grains of the wood, and all his features softened like a marshmallow over the fire. A certain vulnerability oozing through the gaps and staining everything from his eyes to the set of his mouth. 

“Actually, Professor, Harry doesn’t know,” he said quietly, his shoulders now bent forward and spine curved as he closed in on himself like a castle shutting up his gates.

It was strange to see Tom as anything but outrageously confident, and Harry couldn’t help but feel that it was an act, after all, he was pretty fucking sure there was _nothing_ that he didn’t already know about Tom that would be relevant for this situation. 

Still though, seeing Tom like this pulled on his stomach in ways he didn’t want to think about. 

But, despite the obvious, Fortinbras still looked _genuinely_ concerned for she leaned across her desk, lowering her face to try and look at Tom’s downturned one.   
“What is it, Tom?” she said softly, that quasi-parental tone enveloping the entire sentence. It was the same one that Harry had heard, and he suspected it was the same generic tone taught in every teacher’s meeting to be used on every orphan that passed through their classrooms. 

Tom swallowed. 

“I was going to ask, whether you might,” he paused to bite at his lips again, “separate our grades? You see, I got sick over the break, really sick, and I…” he trailed off into deep, nervous, and entirely fake, breaths like he was on the edge of tears, “…I didn’t want to… let anyone down, so, I was… going to ask whether Harry could keep his grade… and… you’d just drop mine?”

Fuck Malfoy, the amateur dramatics society should have targeted Tom. 

Fortinbras was apparently just as underprepared as Harry for such a ridiculously over the top confession, and she just sat there in silence, mouth open slightly. Harry could see the tip of her tongue trying to find the parental words to explain this without being condescending. 

“You know, Professor,” Tom continued, breaking up the silence and letting his voice crack ever so slightly, like glass getting cold too quick, “this will be the first time that I score below an Acceptable… and I want to… _apologise_ because I know it’s _my_ fault and…”

She fucking melted. 

“Oh, Tom, don’t get ahead of yourself,” she said, almost reaching out to touch his hand, now resting awkwardly on the desk, before thinking better of it. “When I said that it was below your usual standard, I meant it wasn’t a hundred per cent, but, obviously, if you have mitigating circumstances, I’ll take these into account and…” She smiled gently, “I’m sure that it won’t be nearly as bad as you think.”

“Really?” he said, looking up with those wide, hopeful eyes; spilling artificial emotions everywhere like a first year’s potions assignment.

“Of course, Tom, you’re my best student, after all, I’m positive I can ensure your grade will not be horrendous.”

Harry sat there awkwardly. He might as well get up and walk out given that, clearly, he was interrupting some sort of praise-fest that he wasn’t party to; did she not realise that their grade this year, was a _joint_ grade, emphasis on the joint part? Harry had equally contributed to every single one of those papers, and now Tom was getting all the credit, even when they were failing. 

Not that Tom even acknowledged him, he just sat there, watching Fortinbras with the smallest, most delicate little smile; his eyes rimmed with a sudden optimism worthy of any first year threatened with house point deductions. “Thank you, so much Professor,” he said, the words still sticking to his tongue, “and if there’s anything I can do for you, _anything_ at all, I will.”

Harry swallowed. There was something _unnerving_ in Tom’s tone, the slightest suggestion, a promise even, of just how far he was willing to go to get the things he wanted. It sounded almost _inappropriate_. And Tom probably meant it to be for it was between the artificial lights and the glow of afternoon sun, that the innocence which had been spread thick over Tom’s face flickered and a distinctly Machiavellian smile revealed itself between the cracks.

Fortinbras didn’t catch it, she just smiled kindly, seeing nothing but sincerity in his features. 

Harry just sat there, between them, feeling like he was interrupting something that he didn’t even want to think about. There was a thickness in the air, gathering like storm clouds as Tom’s eyes dropped down to the desk again in the pretence of submission, his hands awkwardly working themselves together. 

Still, Fortinbras continued to smile. 

And Harry knew he should be disgusted because it was _disgusting_ how easily Tom rolled from one character to another, telling lies and making promises within the same breath. It should have been sickening, but it was – and Harry was loath to say it – maybe, a little attractive.

Okay, _a lot_ attractive. 

Tom seemed to know it too because when he was dismissed, and Fortinbras conveniently leant down to find something under her desk, he walked past Harry far too slowly. His fingers scraping along the back Harry’s neck, hard enough to leave behind a score of pretty pink lines. As his hand left Harry’s shoulder, Tom dropped a scrap of paper into his lap and continued to walk away between the rows of empty desks. 

Without meaning to, Harry turned to watch him leave. To admire him from the back because Tom really was unfairly good-looking from every angle. Tom seemed to feel his eyes on his back because, just before he left, he paused to hold the door open, and, as he did so, he tilted his head back to glance over his shoulder and smiled such a smug smile. Harry couldn’t help but wet his lips, because that stupid smile looked fucking edible, and despite himself, Harry would have taken a bite if he’d been in the position to do so. 

Thankfully, he wasn’t. 

Because, even when Tom was smiling properly, it ached with insincerity; not a wisp of that innocent, on-the-cusp-of-breaking-into-a-million-pieces, boy that had sat next to him mere seconds ago left. 

Just confidence fucking personified 

Harry just glared and turned to staunchly stare at the papers on Fortinbras’ desk, and completely ignore that manipulative little prick that could get whatever he wanted and make it sound like seduction. And, if it had been _anybody_ else, Harry would have thrown that note straight in the bin; probably burnt it first. Yes, he’d have scrunched it up, then burnt it, then dumped it in the bin. 

But this wasn’t anybody.

This was Tom. 

So, Harry found himself unfolding the paper: _After dinner, my room._


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long break, I forgot how time-consuming uni gets; but I do now have a few days free over the winter break, and, for once, some ideas of what to do next in this fic, so hopefully there'll be a few more updates to make up for my absence.

Harry spent the rest of that afternoon learning to hate every single book in Fortinbras’ classroom. She had him standing at the back of the class, by the large bookshelves that went well above his head, sorting the books by place and year of publication, which was, quite frankly, a fucking ridiculous way of organising books, that even made Tom’s incredibly complex colour-weight system seem reasonable.

So, Harry made sure to grip every book as though he was strangling it, pinching its spine between his thumb and forefinger before shoving it onto the shelf hard enough to make it rattle alarmingly. At least, he got to have that satisfaction for half an hour before Fortinbras had peered over her stack of papers, eyebrow raised at his _unconventional_ book-handling technique, and had coughed in just a way that suggested he’d better stop.

Which was a fucking shame, because this had been the first time he’d properly enjoyed himself today. Sure, kissing Tom had also been a highlight, but the somehow bastard could even make something as good as that at least a little regrettable. 

Tom just came with so much fucking baggage. 

His friends, his work ethic, his underhandedness, his schemes, his plots, his looks, (they got a category all to themselves). Even his unrealistic demands for total secrecy grated a little on Harry’s nerves because… 

Because… 

If he was going to put up with all that baggage, the very least he should get in return was the ability to rub their relationship in everybody’s faces. _Especially_ every single one of Tom’s friends that seemed to have the mistaken idea they were still important in _that_ way.

Yeah, he was thinking of Lestrange, and maybe Rosier, and Merlin knows who else.

But it wasn’t because he was jealous. 

Because he wasn’t. He didn’t get jealous and, he _certainly_ didn’t get jealous of Slytherins who didn’t know how to keep their hands off what wasn’t theirs. But, none of that stopped Harry remembering Lestrange’s expression, and practically seeing it on every author’s photo. That volcanic glare, hot enough that he’d guess Lestrange had pools of magma in his eyes, and those violent intentions that were barely hidden beneath his skin.

Harry shook his head and moved down a shelf to start ordering the few remaining books. He was on those published in Vienna now and there really wasn’t that many books, after all, who the fuck publishes a book in a city beginning with X, Y or Z?

Although - Harry paused for a minute - as soon as he was done here, he had to face Tom again, and nothing on earth was going to prepare him for that, especially given Tom’s mood was… unpredictable at the best of times, and now he had equal reasons to be angry at him for dropping him in it, and smug with himself for getting out of it. 

Knowing Tom, he’d somehow manage to be both. 

And, somehow, it’d be the best fucking thing Harry had ever seen.

Merlin, he could already picture Tom like that. The expression he’d wear, as pretty as any string of pearls, would just teeter on the right side of murderous so that it was… well, fucking hot. And there’d be this fevered anger simmering under his skin that would make Tom’s hands grip harder in his hair; and would make those sweet, acerbic words that Tom would murmur into his ear, sound like sugar and lime. Harry could almost hear the syllables and how the irritation would make them _so_ much thicker, richer, _dirtier_. And still, Tom's mouth would be pressing down on him, and Tom’s weight would heavy above him, and Harry would feel small and useable – 

Wait.

That was new.

Harry swallowed; he knew he must be blushing an unflattering shade of red, just at the thought of Tom’s hands touching places they shouldn’t; and him being so confident and assertive, and ever so _sure_ of what he wanted, and exactly how he was going to get it. There was just something undeniably _appealing_ about the idea of Tom unable to stop himself taking what he wanted, and all because Harry had simultaneously frustrated him, and enabled that arrogant streak to ease itself closer to the surface. 

Still though, as good as it sounded, it was definitely… different. After all, most of the time Harry’s more _inappropriate_ Tom-related fantasies, revolved exclusively around making Tom lose that iron grip of control he so prided himself on having. Just the idea of making him as nervous and awkward and flushed as Harry himself felt every time he was close to him, was incredibly satisfying. 

But, then again, the idea of Tom with those dark, endless eyes, that looked like they held galaxies in their depths, and that smile that could cut through a diamond, not to mention that _very_ talented tongue of his, just pressing him up against the wall, well…

It made him _feel_ things.

Things he should definitely _not_ be feeling with his professor less than twenty feet away. 

Harry swallowed again and licked his lips, suddenly quite aware of the rub of his collar against his throat, and the smoothness of the leather-bound book in his hand. He clenched his hand, the knuckles cracking loud enough to make Fortinbras look up again. Harry smiled awkwardly and turned back to the books.

As casually as he could, Harry rolled up his sleeves in some pathetic attempt to cool his insides down before he burned up just from thinking about that smarmy two-faced prat that he happened to, regrettably, be in love with. 

It didn’t work, and Harry had to put up with the heat crawling down into his stomach and sitting, heavy, there. Merlin, as soon as he was out of here, he was either going to punch Tom in the fucking face, or, kiss him hard enough to make him choke on his tongue. 

Harry was pretty sure he would enjoy both equally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this update is kinda short, and thanks for sticking around long enough to read it.


	43. Chapter 43

He was released from the task slightly earlier than he had anticipated, but Harry suspected that might have been because Fortinbras was getting annoyed with his sighs of frustration at both the task, and his thoughts every thirty seconds. At least though, he didn’t have to re-write the essay, that was a job firmly assigned to Tom. 

But he’d scarcely had managed to walk more than a corridor before he was slammed against the wall by someone in the shadows, both of their hands against his shoulder, gripping harder than they should have done.

For a brief moment, he thought it might be Tom unable to wait until the evening.

But it wasn’t.

Because, of course, it fucking wasn’t. 

Rather, the person with their nails pressing too hard into his skin and a glare so deep into their features that it was embedded like diamonds in a ring, was Lestrange, and he looked a few steps short of murderous, which was bloody fantastic. 

Harry sighed; maybe he should have cared more, but how could he when this was so utterly and completely petty. So perfectly Slytherin. So perfectly Lestrange. And to be perfectly honest he’d had enough of it; he could just about deal with Tom whirling all over the place like a rouge carousel, but he could absolutely _not_ deal with all Tom’s friends doing the same fucking thing. 

He looked up, right at Lestrange’s face, and sighed again; louder this time.

Unfortunately, Lestrange wasn’t deterred and kept his hands just as firmly against Harry’s shoulders, way harder than necessary, after all, he wasn’t going to run away. That was what people did when they were scared, and Harry certainly wasn’t scared of Lestrange; Tom when he was in a bad mood, maybe, but Lestrange, oh he wouldn’t dare. 

At least, Harry was ninety-nine per cent sure he wouldn’t, and he tried to ignore the other one per cent that snagged like a fishing hook on his brain.

Even Lestrange wouldn’t risk _serious_ reprimand, would he?

_Would he?_

Of course, there was always the consideration that there was no real, serious, reprimand to be had in this school, and Harry should know. By all normal standards of education, his antics should have got him excluded, if not expelled, as early as his second year. 

He wasn’t given much more time to consider the more intricate details of it before Lestrange was stepping forward, right into his personal space. He twisted his hand and pushed the palm harder into the joint of Harry’s shoulder, whilst digging his nails beneath a bone that Harry hadn’t even know was there but was now showing just how painful it could be.

“I know what you did to him,” Lestrange hissed without an introduction or an explanation, and all the while being entirely _too_ close for _anyone_ to be comfortable with the situation.

“Well that’s fantastic,” Harry said sarcastically, “because I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re on about and I wanted to go to dinner.” He knew as soon as he said it that the words hadn’t quite created the defiant, and rather awesome, atmosphere he’d been hoping for.

Rather they seemed to encourage Lestrange, as he dug his nails in, hooking them further under the bone. “Yes, you fucking do,” said Lestrange, all low and dark and ever so dangerous; rather like there was ground glass sprinkled between the consonants, and if Harry didn’t tread carefully, he’d get it embedded in his tongue. 

But then again, no one got to accuse him of doing anything to anyone, especially when he had no idea what they were talking about. So, Harry tilted his head back a bit in the same way that Tom did when someone challenged him and glared at Lestrange. “No, I fucking don’t,” he hissed back, hoping that, this time, each letter sounded as spiteful as he wanted it to. 

They might have done too because, for a brief moment, Lestrange faltered.

His grip loosening, only marginally, but marginally was enough that Harry no longer felt like he was going to be crushed against the wall with his bones pulled out of his shoulder, which was definitely a plus point.

But that moment of respite quickly passed, because Lestrange replaced his iron grip with his wand, pushed right up against Harry’s throat, the tip pressed in the centre making swallowing hurt and air come less willingly down his throat. “Do you, or do you not, know what a soul bond is?” Lestrange asked softly, more subtly but no less viciously. 

“No,” Harry said cautiously, “why?”  
Because there were currently a hundred, well actually only about four – okay – three and a half theories buzzing around his head like a small colony of bees about what the fuck Lestrange was on about, and what in Merlin’s name it had to do with him. 

“That’s none of your – ” Lestrange was interrupted before he could finish. 

“Merlin,” Malfoy was saying as he rounded the corner to the left and spotted them; which wasn’t exactly hard given they were the most obvious thing in the entire empty corridor. “I let you out of my sight for one goddamn minute,” Malfoy continued, still only addressing Lestrange, “and this is what you do.”  
He didn’t sound particularly pleased, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder how many times Malfoy had been put on babysitting duty.

Regardless, it didn’t really matter because Lestrange didn’t move an inch. If anything, he pushed his wand a little harder into Harry’s throat, hard enough that Harry could feel how it obstructed the flow of oxygen; not enough to seriously do any damage, but certainly enough for it to bloody hurt.

He’d probably have a little red circle like some sort of cult sign. 

And the closer Malfoy got, the harder Lestrange pushed against his throat, as though he was expecting some sort of magical confession to materialise out of thin air. He would be sorely disappointed. 

Harry stayed silent, half because he wasn’t about to say anything to Lestrange when he was behaving like that, and, half because with the wood pressed so hard into his throat, he probably couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to. 

Fortunately, and Harry admitted that _very_ reluctantly, Malfoy got close enough to swat Lestrange’s wand out of his way. “Put that away before you do something stupid with it,” he said, rather like a parent might say to a small child playing with matches or an electrical socket. 

Lestrange had the audacity to pout. 

Whatever reaction he was looking for, he didn’t get it, just a roll of the eye. “Oh, _grow up_ , would you?” said Malfoy, getting between them without a care in the world for Lestrange’s wand pressed against his chest, “you’re really acting like a toddler having a tantrum,” he said, and it sounded like he’d had to deal with this sort of behaviour _a lot_ , before he leant significantly closer to hiss something in Lestrange’s ear; something that Harry had to strain to hear.

But he was used to it.

Most of his life seemed to be taken up with listening to what other people were saying, be it through doors or windows, or even walls “A word of advice, if you want to keep your tongue, I suggest keeping your mouth shut,” Malfoy said, or rather hissed, (what was it about Slytherins and hissing everything?) into Lestrange’s ear.

“And why the fuck should I listen to _you_?” he said, still quiet, but much rougher, rather like a diamond dug straight from the rock, it didn’t have all the polish that Malfoy did, but it certainly held the same authority, albeit for more violent reasons.

“ _Because_ , Malfoy hissed, “they’re not my words, are they? They’re Riddle’s.” His tone was sharper, and now loud enough that any sort of privacy he was hoping to cultivate was, well… _not_ cultivated in the slightest. “But, of course,” Malfoy continued in that slippery and almost condescending tone, “you are very welcome to disobey them, in fact, I would _love_ to watch the fallout of that; but not right now, got it?”

Lestrange looked like he certainly did not _get it_. In fact, Harry was pretty sure he’d never seen him more murderous. But, like a dog forced to relinquish its favourite toy, he dropped his wand away with significant reluctance; though it stayed firmly in his hand, his knuckles markedly white with how hard he was gripping.  
“Since when did you care so much about him, anyway?” Lestrange said with a truly champion sneer.

Malfoy sighed, “since his wellbeing got a significant price tag attached to it, _obviously_.”

Harry rolled his eyes, of course, this sudden care wasn’t out of altruism, or Merlin forbid it, genuine care for other people. No. This was Malfoy, of course, it was about the money. Did he even have any other interests in the world, or did every concern revolve around profitability; if he looked carefully enough would he see galleons in his eyes?

“Now,” Malfoy continued, still watching Lestrange closely as though he might attempt something underhand, “if you’ll excuse me, I’m taking Potter here to dinner.”

For just a moment Harry was silent before the lag in his brain got over itself and the implications of Malfoy’s words filtered through. “You’re fucking what!?” he said, rather too loud, not that there was anyone to hear.

“Shut up,” both Lestrange and Malfoy turned in unison and said to him at once. 

Harry shut up.

Instead, he just continued to watch how they glared at each other in a silent standoff, undoubtedly reminiscent of vultures fighting over a carcass. Lestrange’s spare hand cracked at the knuckles as he flexed it, and he, one hundred per cent, did not look like he was finished with the whole debate, but before he could say anything, Malfoy cut him off, “I’m _not_ having that conversation now, alright?” he said, and that was it. With a wave his hand, and a firm grip on Harry’s upper arm, he was dragged away, and the conversation, and indeed the entire encounter was declared to be over.

“Just ignore him,” Malfoy said, as he was dragged further down the corridor by his shirtsleeve, “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, anyway.”  
Although Malfoy said it casually, the way he still glanced over his shoulder with the precise intention to glare at Lestrange suggested he was feeling _anything_ but causal about the entire affair.


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meets the rest of Tom's friends... it doesn't go well.

Harry was dragged down four corridors, two passageways, and a flight of stairs, just to get to the Great Hall, and he was pretty sure that Malfoy took him on the long route on purpose, just to drag the entire affair out for longer than it needed to be. Harry made sure to complain the entire way, not that that seemed to dissuade Malfoy from his chosen course of action.

Malfoys were too fucking stubborn for their own good. 

When they entered the Great Hall, already pretty filled with people, and Malfoy hand was still clamped around his forearm, rather like a cat’s teeth would be closed around its latest kill, Harry tried to struggle away from him. 

It didn’t work. 

If anything, Malfoy dug his nails in harder, “come on, Harry,” he said softly, and rather intimately as they stood in the doorway silently arguing over where they were going, “we’re friends, aren’t we?” 

“No, we’re fucking not!”

Malfoy had the actual fucking audacity to look a little offended, “even after all I’ve done for you.”

“All you’ve bloody done for me is get me detention, actually,” he said with a glare. 

Malfoy flung his hand dramatically against his chest, probably performing for the growing audience gathering in the Great Hall for dinner. “I’ll have you know,” he said, “I’ve done a lot more than that for you.” The way he said it made Harry momentarily doubt himself and wonder how much influence Malfoy had delegated to himself to achieve his money-motivated end. 

But Harry wasn’t exactly given time to ponder it for long, as Malfoy took advantage of his distraction to drag him away from the Gryffindor table, and instead pulled him over to the crowded Slytherin table, and more specifically to the group of seventh years that Tom typically hung around with. 

Everyone was watching. 

Including the cluster of people that sat there. They consisted of Rosier, who was stabbing her sausage with a viciousness that made Harry look the other way, beside her, was Black, his hand around his waist, and apparently oblivious to exactly why she was upset. Opposite him was Mulciber, who observed Harry with a cool, and surprisingly non-judgemental, interest, beside him, there was Avery, who also held a certain tolerance in her smile. Malfoy initially sat down next to Avery, before deciding it probably wasn’t the best fucking idea to make Harry sit next to Rosier, and so switched seats with him.

He’d barely been sitting for more than a minute when Rosier began. “Why is _he_ here?” she spat, looking thoroughly unimpressed at him, as though he was some particularly disgusting remains of a creature that her cat had dragged in, before mauling on the carpet. 

“Because,” Malfoy said softly but with a definite streak of firmness running through it; his word was to be final apparently. “We have to learn to get along with him.” Evidently, everyone else had been briefed on him being here because they all just half-heartedly nodded and continued to watch him like farm cats might eye a naïve field mouse.

Merlin, he clearly felt like prey today. 

“Well just remember,” Rosier continued, her voice still cold and unfeeling, “I am under no obligation to _like_ you, Potter, and I don’t intend to.”

“Why not?” he said, leaning back a little and smiling, after all, if she was going to be antagonistic anyway, he might as well try and prove to Malfoy what a stupidly _bad_ idea this actually was, which anyone with half a brain cell would have known.

“Because,” she said, “you come here, out of the blue, and try to take away things that the rest of us have had our eyes on for years.”

“And I’m sure your boyfriend would love to hear about that,” he snapped back, flicking his eyes between her and Black, who didn’t notice because he was far too busy dishing out a pile of mashed potato and gravy.

“Oh, you don’t have it in you, Potter.”

That sounded terribly like a challenge, and for as long as he was involved with Tom, however inexplicable and complicated and probably remote the fucking association was, she was going to hate him, so what was even the point in trying to be nice? He might as well prove what he was willing to do. 

“Black,” he said softly, ignoring the warning looks that Malfoy was giving him, and instead, keeping his eyes fixed on Druella. In turn, she stared back, her chin raised, and the same challenge spread like a child’s finger-painting all over her face. 

“What?” Black said, not looking up, but paying marginally more attention.

It was then that Malfoy’s warning looks became more like warning gestures, and he was probably thirty seconds away from actually intervening. But still, Harry didn’t take his eyes off her. She had very blue eyes, and she wasn’t backing down, no matter how close to the line they were getting. Though, Harry still paused long enough for her to back out of this with a simple apology or even a dismissing wave of her hand.

But she didn’t. 

So she fucking deserved it. 

“You know, she cheated on you, right?”

This time Black’s head snapped up, “what?” he said again, “what – who even – are you talking about?” he continued, looking between Harry and Druella, with equal measures of disgust, and disbelief swirling all over his face. His mouth opened and closed several times like a cognitively impaired fish. 

“it doesn’t matter,” Malfoy interjected, leaning physically forward to try and put himself between them. It didn’t work though and Black just shoved him back; Black had always had a bit of a temper, and unfortunately a fragile ego to go with it. 

“Fuck off Malfoy,” he said with that same exasperated expression on his face, “I was just told that my girlfriend of, two years mind you, has apparently been sleeping with someone else, and I think I deserve to know if that’s true.”

“Oh, of course, it’s fucking true, Cygnus,” she said, swatting his arm away and rolling her eyes, “did you really think you could satisfy a woman on your own.” She hissed that last bit, her voice low but loud enough that the people on either side turned to face her.

Black flushed and glanced awkwardly between them all and her. “What the actual fuck Druella?” he hissed back, also keeping his voice relatively restrained, “after everything I’ve done for you?”

Apparently, all Slytherins felt they were owed stuff when they put in minimum effort. 

Druella just leaned back in her seat and laughed in his face, loud enough that the entire table began to quieten. It wasn’t a nice, flirtatious, laugh either, rather a cruel one that made Harry shift nervously in his seat and keep his eyes _mostly_ on his plate, though every so often he snuck a glance between them. 

“Ha, done for me?” Druella was saying, still laughing, “that’s a joke if I ever heard one,” she continued, now sitting back up straight, “you don’t even know where to put your own fucking tongue.”

The rest of the hall began to quieten now, not that it was going to stop them arguing at _maximum_ volume. 

Particularly when Black’s hand had already gone to her wrist, and he was now clenching it hard enough that the skin around her fingers was going painfully white. Harry took the opportunity to grab the potatoes from across the table. By the time he sat back down, Black was ranting, “and I bet you let him put his tongue _everywhere_ didn’t you, you fucking slut!?”

“There is absolutely no need for that,” said Avery standing up, and glaring at Black, her fingers already closed around her fork, and she looked quite ready to put it through his hand at a moment’s notice. Harry didn’t know Avery particularly well, but he’d seen her play quidditch, and the results of that could be somewhat…

Painful. 

Harry shrunk further into his corner and began to toy with his food.

Not that Black was going to let him have his peace. He had stood up too and was now glaring belligerently at Avery, “don’t be a cunt about this,” he said, “it’s none of your fucking business, unless, of course, you knew?”

“Of course, I didn’t know,” she said, “and regardless, you turned all this into my business as soon as you started behaving like a misogynistic prick,” she spat back, making most of the food between them uneatable with her saliva.

“Merlin, you do know there are first years here, right?” said Mulciber with a sigh, as he stabbed a carrot and looked vaguely despairing. It made Harry wonder what happened in Slytherin common room that made Mulciber look like he’d seen all of this before, several times over. 

His comment hadn’t gone unnoticed though, and for just one brief moment, Rosier, Malfoy, Avery and Black joined together to glare at him.   
“Just fuck off, Mulciber,” they all said in a perfectly harmonised unison, before going instantly back to arguing loudly with each other. 

Harry sat there awkwardly and began to eat his way through the mashed potato, even as the shouting intensified all around him. Even Malfoy had now waded in to defend Druella, which had instantly resulted in multiple accusations thrown his way, and, being Malfoy, he’d responded with a sarcastic comment and a smirk, which un-fucking-surprisingly had only made him look more suspicious.

And _now_ he was having a shouting match with Black over the fact he was, in his precise words, ‘far more interested in banging your brother like a screen door in a hurricane, than your fucking girlfriend.’ Harry just raised his brows and continued to move potato around his plate.

This was really _not_ how he’d expected this evening to go, or frankly how he’d planned it, but, then again, it was far more fucking entertaining having them individually hate each other, than having them all collectively hate _him_. 

So, he sat there, occasionally exchanging award smiles with the fifth and sixth years, who were staring some open-mouthed at the absolute carnage that was unfolding before their eyes. Mostly in the form of increasingly colourful insults that were flying back and forth like a golden snitch, but also at the fact a fork had been embedded in the table, and now Avery had her wand drawn against Black’s throat.

That was when the first bread roll was thrown. 

Specifically, it was thrown _by_ Mulciber, having given up all the moral high ground for the sake aggravating his peers; and specifically _at_ Avery, half, Harry suspected, to stop her using said wand as it was immediately knocked out of her hand, and half, over a comment she had made about Mulciber’s androcentrism. She returned the gesture with a handful of peas.

It snowballed from there. 

Black threw the entire bowl of carrots at Druella, of which only about half actually hit her, the rest went on the floor and a couple of third years who’d been unfortunately close, and in retaliation, Malfoy threw the rest of the bread rolls, which were quickly returned again by Avery, albeit it with the addition of ketchup that was leaving horrific stains everywhere, and, of course, Mucliber had then thrown the plate of sausages, which had hit _everyone_.

And before long, Druella dumped a jug of gravy on Black’s head and the entire hall had descended into absolute _anarchy_. Harry sighed and continued to sit there, watching as increasingly appalling things were thrown over the table, and then between tables, occasionally landing on his plate and in his drink and even on his clothes. 

The only _good_ thing about this entire situation was that Tom wasn’t here to witness the carnage he’d sort of created.


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry visits Tom's room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably wasn't in the right frame of mind to write this, but I also haven't updated in a shameful length of time, so I apologise if this is absolutely awful.

Harry was later than he should have been getting to Tom’s room. There had been certain reprimands dealt out when the professors had finally decided that this was supposed to be a school and not the fucking zoo and had put a stop to – well – everything. Harry had _tried_ to sneak away before anyone noticed, emphasis on tried, because everyone had been blaming each other, before collectively blaming _him_ , and it had taken them fucking forever to unpick it all.

In fact, by the time he did manage to get away with only a few house-points deducted, there were only forty minutes before curfew, and at least fifteen of those would have to be spent navigating his way back through this fucking castle, but whatever Tom wanted surely couldn’t take that long to be discussed, could it? 

Probably not, given that Harry was pretty sure it was either going to be an admonishment for sharing intimate details of how Tom spent his afternoons, or it was going to be an admonishment for outwitting him; though there was still something warm and fluffy in Harry’s heart told him that if Tom had _really_ wanted rebuke him in any meaningful way, he would have done it in front of his friends.

But whatever this ended up being, Harry was going to grin and bear it, maybe even enjoy it, and then he was going to go to bed and get some fucking sleep. 

To be quite honest, it was the perfect plan.

Too bad Tom managed to ruin it as soon as Harry stepped into his room.

Well, technically, he didn’t _ruin_ it, Harry did, but it was _Tom’s_ fault. 

He was on his bed, in a very similar position to the one he’d been in when this all began. He was sprawled over the bed, half propped up by a stack of pillows, with his left leg bent at the knee, and his right spilling off the side of the mattress; one hand behind his head as the other balanced a book on his chest. He was turning the pages with magic because of course he fucking was. 

Despite the door very obviously opening, with a loud and not even remotely surreptitious creak, Tom hadn’t looked up immediately. So, Harry was afforded a good half a minute to admire those long lean lines that made Tom look so good; not to mention, the curve of his fingers against the hardcover of the book, and the expression he made when he was concentrating. That scholarly furrow in the centre of his forehead and the way he rolled his lip between his teeth, as he read a sentence that must have had something to do with potions, though Harry wasn’t entirely sure as the title of that particular book wasn’t in English and he wasn’t about to waste his precious time translating.

After a few more minutes of being ignored, Harry began to tap his foot loudly on the stones; tempted to open the door again and maybe slam it, or, maybe just throw one of the many textbooks in Tom's vague direction. But he didn't need to because Tom quirked an eyebrow at the sound of his foot, not that it provoked a reaction of any _real_ kind. Clearly then, he was aware of Harry’s presence, he just thought his book was more important. 

Which was fucking impolite. 

Not that Tom seemed to currently care. Instead, all he did was shift himself slightly, his legs falling wide enough apart to perfectly fit someone between them, and the hand that had been behind his head, coming down to rest on his abdomen, pressing into his shirt. Harry licked his lips as he watched the fingers splay themselves out with an artful carelessness that gave him ideas he’d never admit to having. 

And Tom must have known how provocative he looked.

 _He must have fucking known._

Because it was too calculated for him not to. The precise tilt of his head, and the confident stretch of his legs, even the flicker of the light glinting off his eyes was so perfect that it _must_ have been curated. Then, of course, there was the slightest of smiles pulling at the corner of Tom's mouth like the sun peeping out from the edge of a cloud, that meant he was pleased with himself, because Harry refused to believe that anyone, even Tom, could possibly find a potions book _that_ amusing.

“Tom?” he said, just to announce his presence really. 

That time, Tom glanced up and his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer than Harry suspected he meant them to. For his mouth twitched and his bottom lip stayed stuck between his teeth, as though he’d forgotten it was there. A second later, he was swallowing visibly and quickly redirecting his gaze to the upper-left-hand corner of the room, apparently finding an utter fascination in a spider’s web that hung there. 

If someone had bothered to tell him that taking his jumper off would get him this kind of reaction, then Harry would have done it a long time ago. _Fuck it_ , he'd have walked shirtless into History of Magic if it made Tom's interest spike up and the slightest colour diffuse out from under his collar. Though now, the only reason that he’d taken his jumper off was because of the sheer number of food-related stains that now covered it, mostly thanks to Rosier, Black and Malfoy, none of whom were blessed with good aim. 

But, despite all Tom’s very _obvious_ interest, he didn’t say anything. Rather, he just continued to stare at that same corner of the room; Harry watched as he traced his eyes over the edges of the walls, and stared at the spider, barely visible in the gloom, as it added to its web. Perhaps it would have fooled some people as being a genuine disinterest, maybe even a polite form of disapproval, but there was also such an obvious stiffness in Tom’s jaw that gave it all away. 

As though he was using all his willpower _not_ to look. 

“Hey,” Harry said, clapping his hands together, (he would have snapped his fingers, but he’d never quite got the hang of that), “I didn’t come here– ” he started before Tom raised his hand and cut him off mid-sentence with a mere indication of disapproval. In any other circumstances Harry would have been fucking impressed. But Tom didn’t say or do anything, all he did was tear his eyes away from the corner and continued to read his book, as though Harry had simply been an annoying first year interrupting him in the library. 

And that made Harry grit his teeth, after all, there were only so many times that Tom could annoy him within a certain timeframe before he got his own back.

Normally, his resistance to this level of petty irritation would have been higher, but he’d had to put up with enough of Tom’s antics today, and that wasn’t even including the actions of his friends. Simply put, Harry had had enough. So, without invitation, he took a seat on the edge of the bed, which he noted now was easily big enough for the both of them, but to be perfectly honest, the last time he’d been in here, he been somewhat… distracted. 

When Tom didn’t react, Harry shuffled across an inch.

Then two more.

Then three more. 

Until he was very close indeed. Close enough to feel the pleasant warmth of Tom’s skin, and to see the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, and even to admire the how the shadows painted great, curling, patterns on his neck; smoothing down the hollows and highlighting the ridges in just the prettiest way. But despite the tension strung tight in Tom’s shoulders that clearly indicated that he _knew_ he was being intimately examined, he still he pretended to read. _Pretended_ because Harry could see that his pupils had frozen still and that he was simply staring at the same word and had been ever since Harry started to get into his personal space. 

Harry tried again to initiate conversation, “I _thought_ you wanted to see me?” he said, firm but still warm and just dripping with the sort of honied affection that made Tom squirm; this time ignoring the continued objections of Tom’s hand. As he spoke, Harry leaned back, and in the guise of steadying himself, he reached out his hand and scraped it over Tom’s shoulder.

Tom tensed harder and took too long to blink, though, he made no attempt to push Harry away. 

Harry smiled at that, and, bolder this time, he ran his fingers over Tom’s shoulder and down his arm, feeling stupidly proud at the way Tom shivered under his touch. They both stayed silent as Harry continued to trace the pads of his fingers over the stark blue veins that ran like deep rivers over Tom’s forearms, and over the delicate points of the bones that made up his wrist; all soft and careful and romantic. 

Lulling him into a false sense of security like a pretty flower lulls an insect. 

Then, before Tom had time to react, Harry struck. Without warning, he suddenly darted his hand forward and grabbed the book out of Tom’s hands. He tossed it across the room, where it landed with a thunk on the stone floor, but Tom didn’t have a moment to protest that before Harry was replacing it with himself; sitting across Tom’s waist and, in the process, practically fulfilling every adolescent fantasy he’d ever fucking had.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this is so nondescript, pointless, and probably all around not that great

Tom stared up at him, his eyes swimming with a curious mixture of surprise and satisfaction, as though Harry was just obligingly playing his part in a much wider scheme, the nature and purpose of which was yet to be revealed to him. But despite that serene surface of calm satisfaction that Tom was projecting, there were still gaps – just tiny cracks – that suggested he was anything but calm.

Though he was doing his utmost, and for the most part, he was actually succeeding in hiding it under the same mask of fucking neutrality that he always wore. 

“I was reading that,” Tom said, interrupting Harry’s thoughts with such a careful, tempered, tone as if he was trying to emphasise that this was all merely a great inconvenience to him and that he didn’t care in the slightest for the outcome. 

And Harry might have believed him. 

_Might._

But how could he, when there were all those little clues that said Tom cared an awful fucking lot? They were littered everywhere over his body, all Harry had to do was hunt for them, and like a child searching for Easter Eggs, he was meticulous in his pursuit. Watching the flickering of Tom’s eyes, and how his gaze wandered falteringly to Harry’s throat, lingering for too long at the collar of his shirt until the fabric felt uncomfortably tight against Harry’s skin, before tracing his torso and down to the length of his thighs.

And if that itself wasn't evidence enough, then there was an odd rhythm of Tom’s breathing; at once both too shallow and too deep, frayed around the edges, and with each gulp of air apparently never enough to properly fill his lungs with oxygen. It was the perfected demonstration of failing control; someone fighting desperately with their own natural reaction, so that they could feign indifference. 

Well, it wasn’t fucking working. 

Perhaps on its own, it might have fooled the more naïve person, but alongside those dark eyes and persisting gaze, it rather suggested _hyper-vigilance_ rather than indifference. As though Tom was aware of every little tiny thing that Harry did; as though he could feel it resonating inside him like the beat of a drum in an enclosed space.

Harry decided to test that theory. After all, it wasn’t every day that he got Tom lying there so passive on his back, letting Harry have apparent control because, and Harry doubted that Tom would ever admit it, he liked it.

So, ever so carefully, Harry raised a hand up to his neck and undid the topmost button of his shirt; the one that, under the rising heat, was starting to chafe at his skin. Tom's eyes followed every movement of his fingers with an interest that was almost unnerving in its intensity before he realised that he’d been staring, and he darted his eyes back up to Harry’s face, trying to hide his own distraction behind a lazy smile. 

“Well are you going to do anything then?” asked Tom, managing to keep his tone steady, even as he propped himself up onto his elbows, “or should I get another book?” The dry wit in the question was palpable, and clearly there was nothing obstructing Tom’s ability to think, which, if Harry thought about it, was a shame.

And he couldn’t help but wonder, how many buttons would it take to render Tom completely silent? 

For once in his life entirely speechless. 

He’d have to test it out one day; for scientific purposes, of course. 

But for now, Harry contented himself with smiling and shifting a little, pressing his knees into Tom’s ribs and securing him in place. “You can read anytime you want,” he said slowly, using the palm of his hand to push Tom down so that he was lying flat on his back again. “I, however,” he continued, “am a limited time offer.” 

Even as the words left his mouth, Harry realised how incredibly tacky that line was, and he knew he flushed an embarrassing shade of pink as a result. In fact, he could all but feel it tracking down his neck and colouring in every inch of his skin with a whole kaleidoscope of rose-tinted hues. But Tom just smiled, genuinely, and closed his eyes and letting his head drop back so that he was facing the ceiling. 

In that a moment Tom was curiously vulnerable.

For there was no tight tension clamping at his muscles, and his neck was exposed, and like this, he reminded Harry of a cat that will only let you scratch its belly when it trusts you. But perhaps that was the nice thing about Tom, he was multifaceted, so everyone got a different version of him all to themselves, and Harry’s version didn’t mind letting his guard down a little. 

He allowed himself to be comfortable; each muscle relaxed and the smile on his mouth easier, a genuine thing rather than one that had been curated to get the result he wanted. This is what he looked like when he wasn’t trying to impress or coerce or subdue: this was as close to his true self and Tom would likely let anyone get, and only _Harry_ got to see it.

And Harry would be lying if he said that didn’t make him all fuzzy inside. 

“So, I’ll do something when I’m ready,” Harry said, trying to continue the conversation as he let his fingers trace down the line of buttons on Tom’s shirt. Enjoying the way Tom licked his lips and shuddered ever so slightly whenever he picked at the metal, threatening to, but never quite undoing it. Maybe it that was reaction, or maybe it was simply the passive way that Tom was letting him do anything he liked, but _something_ about Tom’s expression made Harry feel bold, and he found himself adding, “and you’ll wait for it, won’t you, Tom.” 

He actually heard the hitch in Tom’s breath at that. The one that said, without Tom actually having to voice it, that he would very much wait for it. And _fuck_ , if that wasn’t one of the hottest things Harry had ever thought about. Just Tom on his back, squirming, with his every breath running ragged and his eyes glazed over, as Harry _teased_ and _tantalised_ but didn’t touch.

“I want you to know,” Harry started, suddenly anxious to get over these formalities, “you upset me today, Tom.” As he spoke, he continued to run his fingers along the central line of Tom’s shirt; feeling the fabric against his skin and admiring how Tom’s pupils stretched wider as his fingers got higher. “You upset me,” Harry repeated, trying not to get too distracted, “because I _want_ everyone to know how much I like you.” 

He paused then and looked Tom right in the eye as he undid the button nearest to his throat. The skin there was hot on Harry’s fingers, and he couldn’t help but feel his own flush spill further onto his chest and reinforce its vigour on his cheeks, as Tom swallowed hard, his own fingers flexing, and his gaze never leaving Harry’s. 

Merlin, Harry wanted to kiss him. 

To just push Tom against the bed and kiss him until he was suffocating.

Until the only thing that Tom could remember was the warmth of Harry’s palms, and the taste of his mouth, and the texture of his tongue.

But Harry still had a point to make, even if he was struggling to remember exactly what it was.  
“And – and,” he said, trying not to get distracted by the way Tom tilted his head back and showed the curve of his neck to maximum effect; those hands of his smoothing over his shirt. 

Harry swallowed again. 

“And I _want_ everyone to know – how much _you_ like me too,” he said finally, before sitting back to admire the view; centring most of his weight on Tom’s waist. _Merlin_ , Tom looked good, so fucking good, with those black honey eyes and that half-smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

They stayed watching each other for another, long, moment, and Tom held that gaze even as he raised his hand and undid another button of his shirt. He smiled again with that intense _knowing_ stitched into it because he must have been able to feel the hum that was buzzing under Harry’s skin; a singing serenade in his blood of all the things he wanted to do to Tom.

Tom was about to undo another button when Harry found himself reaching forward to touch their hands together, because if Tom was insisting on undressing, (for the second time in a scenario like this Harry might add) then, Harry was going to, at least, be a gentleman about it and undress him himself. 

And Tom obliged, removing his hand and placing it on top of Harry’s, where it stayed as a weight: warm and soft and dry, as Harry undid that button and moved down to the next one. Not that he got very far because of the fucking romantic that Tom pressed his fingers in between each of Harry’s, so that their hands were interlocking, and Harry’s insides were melting into a quixotic pool of stupidly fluffy feelings. 

Those feelings only lasted a fucking second though.

Because a moment later Tom was striking like a snake might, and using Harry’s own tactics against him. In that moment of romantic laxity, Tom managed to swing his leg up and tip them both over to the side and then over again so that it was Harry lying flat on his back with Tom above him; their fingers still interlocked, though now Tom’s was pressing them both into the duvet. It had all happened so bloody fast that Harry knew his mouth was hanging open embarrassingly wide and there wasn’t a single clever thought left on his tongue.

_Because what the actual fuck?_

But Harry didn’t get a verbal answer per se; he just got Tom looking _far_ too pleased with himself. “You shouldn’t let your guard down, Harry,” he said with a smile, even as he draped himself so shamelessly over him, and in the process gave Harry a very good look down his shirt, “after all, anyone might take advantage.”


	47. Chapter 47

“Now, if we’re expressing our grievances,” he said, stroking Harry’s hair back, before tracing his fingers down the side of his cheek. “You upset me too, Harry,” Tom continued, shifting himself as he spoke so that his weight was spread more equally across Harry’s entire waist, which really only had the effect of letting him feel more of Tom’s body against his own. 

“Do you know why?” Tom said, leaning forward, and untangling their hands, and instead, placing it at the base of his sternum, the fingers spread out and pressing into Harry’s shirt. He could feel the heat of them through the fabric, which only served as a reminder of how bloody warm it was in here, and how that warmth seemed to slither so insidiously under his skin as though his insides had become smouldering coals. 

Harry shook himself out of it, whilst trying to shrug and managing it awkwardly; his shoulders pressing into a pillow as he did so. He kept he eyes on Tom as he did so – well – _technically_ , he kept his eyes on the split in his shirt and the splinter of smooth skin that was so perfectly visible, and so perfectly appetising.

But to avoid giving Tom the upper hand too soon, Harry also did his best to appear nonchalant, and to pretend that he couldn’t actually see that delectable line of skin, nor feel how oppressively hot it was. Though Tom wasn’t exactly helping either of those matters in the faintest, thanks to the heat radiating off his skin like a fucking furnace, and the fact he kept shifting ever so slightly, each time giving Harry a better view. 

“Because of your little outburst…” Tom continued, either willfully ignorant of the fact that Harry was staring, or completely oblivious to how good he currently looked under the warm glow of the candles, the ones that spread such a pretty chocolate glaze over his eyes. “…I had to have a _very_ long conversation with Lestrange.”

“Well that – ” Harry started in an attempt to interrupt, but before he could get any further, Tom cut him off with his thumb pressing against his lips. “I’m all for hearing your opinion,” he murmured, tracing the lines of his lips whilst wearing that dark, dangerous smile, the one that was as sharp as a shard of glass and twice as pretty in the light, “but let me finish first.”

Harry was going to argue with that, even if was just to keep the burning heat of Tom’s thumbs against his lips, and the gentle press of his fingers on his cheek. A part of him wanted to close his eyes and just melt into this moment where Tom was being so soft and gentle, and hideously romantic, but at the same time, he didn’t quite trust Tom.

He couldn’t be a hundred per cent sure that he wasn’t going to do something… unexpected for the sheer fucking hell of it. 

So, Harry kept his eyes open and watched the way the shadows slid around the contours of Tom’s face as he moved, and kept his attention on the soft press of Tom’s thumb as it brushed up along his jaw.  
“Now,” Tom said, still silky smooth and undemanding, “as I was saying, I had to give Lestrange a very long explanation which didn’t satisfy him in the slightest, but I think I’m willing to overlook that because…” He leant forward then, so that his mouth was beside Harry’s ear and he could practically feel the flickers of Tom’s tongue. “Well,” he murmured, “I overlooked that you could be so devious, Harry.”

Harry swallowed, the moment extending into infinity as he lay still, listening to the deep, controlled, pace of Tom’s breathing. The world felt so small like this, with him crammed between the mattress and Tom’s body. Though, to be perfectly honest, Harry didn’t care if the rest of the universe simply evaporated into the air; he had everything that he would ever need, buried right here in the feel of Tom’s smile so close to his jaw, and the burning press of his fingers against his skin. 

“Changing the handwriting on that essay,” Tom continued, his tone somehow dipping deeper, like it was sinking into a bowl of molten honey, and his fingers knotting themselves slowly into Harry’s hair. “Now _that_ was clever,” he murmured, his mouth grazing over Harry’s skin, he paused for a moment longer before leaning even closer, “and I _like_ clever, Harry.”

Merlin, he all but _groaned_ at that. 

Why did Tom have to be so fucking good at everything he did? Was it too much to ask for him to have a couple of weaknesses? But, then again, perhaps he did have weaknesses, and Harry simply hadn’t found them yet; perhaps those weaknesses were there, hovering under the skin and just waiting for someone to explore Tom enough to find them.

He liked the thought of that enough to momentarily close his eyes and picture it; the look in his eyes and the words on his tongue as Harry explored his each and every secret. Harry swallowed again, shifting himself as he felt the scratch of Tom’s shirt against his neck and attempting to swallow down the heat that seemed to be everywhere inside of him.  
“Is that so?” he somehow managed to say, all at once sharp and breathless like a cold wind in mid-winter. Though he couldn’t help but think that if Tom had cared to make that little fact known slightly earlier in this entire process, then Harry would probably have been far more prepared for his exams than he currently was.

His tone must have made Tom suspicious though as he promptly sat himself up, as though he expected Harry to suddenly try and bite him. 

But that moment of chariness, where Tom was a little laxer than he should have been, was more than enough, and Harry took the advantage to grip onto Tom’s wrists. Using most of his strength, he pushed them both over again, putting them back to how they had been before, and quite frankly how they _should_ be right now.  
“You shouldn’t let your guard down, Tom,” Harry murmured, leaning over him and unable to keep the smugness out of his tone, all whilst pushing his palm into his shoulder, just in case he was thinking of doing something underhand, “after all, someone might take advantage.”

And that was a fucking fantastic line that had better go down in history; but before Harry could get too lost in revelling in his own linguist brilliance, Tom was quipping back: “maybe I want them to take advantage.” 

Which knocked Harry into absolute silence because that was the fucking closest, he had yet got to getting Tom to admit what he wanted. 

It took Tom exactly three seconds to realise what he’d just said, and suddenly he was immensely interested in the welfare of his favourite corner again. Though, this time, that gaze was punctuated with irregular glancing back at Harry; each gaze, heavier and more lingering than the last. Nothing more than little flickers of Tom’s pupils back and forth as though he thought Harry couldn’t see how obvious he was being. 

Harry licked his lips, moving his legs closer to Tom’s sides, but letting the moment stretch itself out properly like a cat before a fireplace, as he tried to connect the dots of Tom’s ridiculously enigmatic personality. On one hand, he definitely wanted to bring this up and get it out in the open, but… at the same time, he suspected that if he did Tom might just shove him off entirely; but, then again, he also couldn’t stay fucking silent.

That would just make this silence worse. 

But before Harry had had time to adequately contemplate it, he caught Tom’s eye. And it sounded so fucking clichéd, but that moment really did last for fucking ever; Tom looking up at him with those hickory wood eyes, almost lambent in the glow of the room, and his lips parted just enough that Harry could see the line of his tongue, and the fucking gorgeous way his hair fell in his eyes, at once both apprehensive and poised. 

Fuck, Harry needed to make a decision. 

After all, he couldn’t just stare at Tom forever, however much he wanted to. 

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, and all that fucking jazz. 

“You know,” Harry said finally, as he abruptly grasped hold of Tom’s thighs, “you only had to say.” As he spoke, Harry dragged Tom over the duvet until he was flat on his back, his hands still splayed out above his shoulders and his legs spread wide enough for Harry to get comfortably between them. Needless to say, really, but Tom’s mouth was properly open now, though if he wanted to say anything, it must have got stuck in his throat because he stayed there in a stunned, organic, silence. 

At least, he did until Harry kissed him. 

Then he wasn’t silent at all. 

The first kiss was just a press of their lips together and nothing more, the second was less so, and the third was _even_ less. Rather, by then, it was all hot and breathless with Tom’s fingers touching the nape of Harry’s neck and hooking into his hair, just trying to pull him closer. Whilst one of Harry’s hands supported his weight, and the other pressed itself between their bodies, still working, though less effectively, the rest of Tom’s buttons loose. 

He did manage to get a couple more undone though, enough that he could splay his hand out over Tom’s skin and feel how unbearably hot it was, and how smooth and human he felt under all those carefully constructed layers of unhuman-esque behaviour. And it was all perpetuated by those lovely little half-groans that Tom was involuntarily making whenever Harry used his tongue, and the heaving of his chest as he breathed far to fast, and the – 

The blaring of a military-grade alarm going off across the room jolted Harry out of that happy little fantasy. He glanced over, panting, and swallowing and more than a little shaken because who the fuck has an alarm going off to mark random times of the day, except to mark something important… 

Oh.

 _Oh._

Fucking curfew. 

Harry leapt up; he’d already been written up too many times this year, losing hundreds of house-points in the process, and the rest of his house might just kill him, or at least incapacitate him indefinitely if he lost them any more for completely accidentally, being in the wrong place at the wrong time yet again. But, unfortunately, his legs were still very much entangled with Tom’s and instead of quickly getting to the door, he instead managed to drag them both down onto the hard floor in an absolute mess of limbs.


End file.
